


The Second Labor

by AidaRonan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Timeline, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drugging, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Historical, Includes Art, Letters, M/M, Medical Torture, Nazi/Fascist ideology (against), Psychological Torture, diabetic Steve, pre-serum steve, shrinkyclinks, wartime imagery and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 57,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: What if Steve Rogers never became Captain America? What if Zola strapped Bucky to that table in Kreischberg and no one came? The Second Labor explores what might have been if Bucky became a version of the Soldier much earlier. It also explores an alternative timeline for Steve where he finds his way into the war effort in a slightly different fashion.A fic that is one part alt history and one part epistolary, The Second Labor features an established relationship, found family on the battlefield, letters, more historical research than the author probably ever needed to do, and the idea that love—from our partners, from our family, and from our friends—is a force more powerful than anything its enemies can  possibly create.Written for the Not Another Stucky Big Bang '20. Words by AidaRonan. Art by Not_Worms.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Howling Commandos, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Rebecca Barnes Proctor & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & the Barnes Family
Comments: 321
Kudos: 189
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> All of the art in this fic is from my wonderful partner in the Not Another Stucky Big Bang, [Not_Worms](https://twitter.com/not_worms). I am still so honored RJ chose my work during claims, and every piece I have seen so far has filled me with joy. Please remember the art when you're leaving love in the comments, and please go give RJ a follow if you do the Twitter. 
> 
> I also owe my life to [spacebuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebuck/works) who stepped in as a last-minute beta even while working on a NaNo. Thank you for the encouragement, notes, and corrections (and for doing word sprints with me in the middle of the night!)
> 
> This draft of this fic is ~~nearly~~ complete, and I will have a pretty aggressive update schedule so that I can meet my posting window for the bang. So with all that said, let us begin...

__

> _September 25, 1942,_
> 
> _Dear Ma, Pa, Becca, Janie, and Ruthie,_
> 
> _Writing as promised to let you all know I made it to basic safe and sound. A lot like Pa said it would be. This morning, I learned how to make a bed as apparently I had no idea how to do it before. Sorry, Ma, it’s not on you. Between you and me, I think your way is the right way, but don’t let Uncle Sam know I said that. Though surely even he had a ma too. Maybe she taught him how to make beds, and since he figures her way is the only way, now we all have to do it like that._
> 
> _Recognize a few of the boys from around the neighborhood. Harry Angelo and Lenny Kaplan are here. I told them that one of these days we’ll have to get a stickball game together like the old days. There has to be some free time between learning how to wear a shirt the right way and running around in our gear. Frank Peterson from around the block is here too, so it’s probably a good thing Steve isn’t!_
> 
> _Made some new friends on top of the old. Fella from Jersey named Joe Janosi kept me entertained on the trip out here with all kinds of stories about some game he and his pals used to play hiding a box of junk around town. The way he tells it, I guess there really isn’t much to do over in Jersey, but the state did produce Joe and another decent fella by the name of Theodore Lipnicki, so I guess it’s not all bad._
> 
> _To my girls, keep minding Ma and Pa and stay in school._
> 
> _I’ll write again soon. Check in on Steve for me when you can._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Bucky_

June 1943

Steve wakes up naked, damp, and happy in a bittersweet sort of way. The tenement is warm, made warmer still by Bucky curled around him. Heat pools—muggy and heavy—between them. Even so, with Bucky’s head of short, sleep-loose curls on his chest, Steve can't bring himself to complain.

And if this is the last—

No. That's not a line of thought worth following.

Bucky stirs, cringing and moving his head off of Steve’s bare stomach. With his palm, Bucky wipes at the side of his sweaty face. The now-empty expanse of Steve’s skin cools rapidly in the open air. 

The series of slow blinks that Bucky gives the room is so familiar that it makes Steve ache for how things were before Bucky got the draft letter. He's only seen Bucky sporadically in the past six months, and now Bucky is leaving properly. Off to Europe where Steve is trying his best, and failing, to follow. 

Blue-gray eyes land on Steve, Bucky’s face going soft and warm like the first rays of morning.

“Stevie,” he says, disentangling his body from Steve’s and managing to put one inch of space between them. A yawn, and the corners of Bucky’s eyes form mountain ranges that Steve hopes will have time to become permanent. “Christ, why is it so hot in here? It’s only June.”

Steve reaches out and cards bony fingers through Bucky’s hair. “It’s all that hot air you’re full of since you somehow made sergeant without so much as wounding a single German.” Steve moves his hand down Bucky’s neck to his collarbone, tracing the hollow of it. They had made love for hours the night before, the physical act of sex taking a back burner to things like this. With the backs of their knuckles and the pads of their fingers, they had softly traced every inch of each other. Then they had done it again with their lips and the tips of their noses.

It reminded Steve of the day he went to the Met just to see _The Sea_ by Gustave Courbet again, to sit before it and stare, closing one eye and reaching out to trace every line in the air so that he might never forget a single brushstroke as long as he lived.

“Don’t be sore, Steve.” Bucky touches him back, his fingers moving down the faint center line of Steve’s chest and down farther still. “I don’t want you there. Pa never said much about the last war, but the things he did say—I don’t want you there. I wanna know you’re back here, keeping the neighborhood scum in line and making Becca and Janie and Ruthie laugh. I wanna know Ma will have at least one son no matter what happens to me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s not that I think you don’t got a right to be there. I know full well what you’re capa—”

“Not that,” Steve says. “Don’t talk about it like you aren’t coming back.”

Bucky goes quiet for several seconds, the path of his fingers as still as the sea on a windless day.

“Of course I’ll come back. Who’s gonna keep you out of trouble if I don’t?” Bucky resumes the movement, circling Steve’s navel. “I think we’ve got better things to talk about right now though.”

“Do we?” Steve asks, even as he watches Bucky’s fingers move closer and closer to the bed of dark blond curls below his belly.

* * *

The last thing Steve wants on Bucky’s final night on the continent is a double date, even if he knows why Bucky drags him out like this. Really, Steve wishes they could've stayed in bed all day, even if they did nothing but lie as close as they could stand until Bucky left to say his goodbyes to his parents and his sisters.

Steve could've drawn him one more time, and Bucky could've read him stories from the pulps he had left all over the apartment through the years.

Instead, they're at the Stark Expo with two girls in tow and Steve doing his best not to be sour. Bucky deserves his fun without Steve raining all over it.

The thing is that Steve had always thought he had more time. Life is always like that though. You pay your rent and the next month seems so far away until it shows up, breathing down your neck. You try to enlist for a second time when your fella gets his draft card, and even when he is gone for months on end, it seems like there is plenty of sand left in the hourglass. Until you look up and realize there is only the smallest pile left, so quickly slipping away.

Steve can't focus, not on the floating car or the women who seem to want nothing to do with him. When Bucky smiles, it feels worse. How is he supposed to give up that smile for another six months? For a year? Forev—

No.

There is a recruiting station there, sporadically placed posters of Uncle Sam lying to his face. Steve knows the second he sees one that he is going to try again.

Slipping away is easy. Bucky is still focused on Stark’s spectacle and the proverbial world of tomorrow it represents. And no one in the crowd cares that Steve is moving away from the stage, letting him pass easily.

He lingers just inside of the recruiting center where the solemnity of the war blends discordantly with the wild happy energy of the fair. Staring at himself in the face of a soldier he is not even tall enough to be, he crafts his newest story. Steve from New Haven came to the city on the train to see the fair. Easy. Simple.

Bucky’s hand on his shoulder is more difficult.

“Steve, the point of a double date is sort of that there’s one of us for each of them,” Bucky says. He’s giving Steve that signature crooked smile he takes on and off as easily as a jacket. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“You go ahead. I’ll catch up,” Steve says, glancing back at where the recruitment center begins properly.

“So who are you today? Steve from Milwaukee?” The smile is gone now, Bucky’s face stern in a way that makes his always-sharp jaw seem even more jagged at the edges. “I don’t know why you—”

“Yes, you do.”

Bucky sighs.

“They’ll catch you, Steve. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.” Bucky exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to prove anything, Steve, not to anybody and especially not to me. Just come dancing with us. Let it go.”

Steve glances back toward the interior of the center again and frowns at Bucky.

“For some reason, I get the impression my dance partner won’t exactly miss me.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and steps in closer, lowering his voice so that no one else could possibly hear. He speaks directly into Steve’s good ear. 

“Your partner doesn’t like fellas at all, Steve. Neither one of ‘em do. That’s sort of the point.”

Bucky steps back, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not gonna be able to convince you, am I, pal?” Bucky asks, his eyes sad. Steve puts on the best smile he can manage when faced with that look.

“Find us a double date overseas,” he says. “I’ll dance as much as you want once I’m over there doing my part with my best guy.”

Bucky nods and steps backwards.

“Try to stay out of trouble at least a little?” Bucky arranges his face back into a crooked, hollow grin.

“You know I won’t.”

A genuine chuckle, and Bucky moves to pull him in close, squeezing him tight and patting him on the back.

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve says quietly, and then even quieter, “Be careful.”

“Take care of Ma and the girls for me,” Bucky says before adding, “at least while you’re still here.” Even though it's clear he doesn't believe Steve is going anywhere.

Steve nods and watches Bucky walk backwards until one of the girls calls his name, and then he’s gone. Steve closes his eyes just to make sure the brushstrokes are still there.

* * *

The vibe is off in the exam room, a funny little feeling twisting in Steve’s gut before the nurse comes in, whispering something in the doctor’s ear that Steve can't make out.

“Wait here,” the doctor says.

“Is there a problem?”

“Just wait here,” he says before disappearing through the curtain. Steve moves as quickly as he can to put on his shoes, but the MP steps through the curtain before he can finish lacing even one of them. Steve stops and sits up straight.

A stern-looking man in a uniform follows with a folder clasped tightly in his hand. He is tall, taller than Bucky even. Probably in his mid-30s. His hair is a pale brown.

“Steve Rogers?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says.

“From Brooklyn?” he asks, flipping open the folder and turning pages as he speaks. “Or is it Paramus? Queens? N—”

“That might not be the right file.”

“Oh, I’m certain it is, Mr. Rogers,” he says. “I’m Staff Sergeant Miller.”

Steve sits quietly for several moments while Miller continues to flip through his file, reading through page after page.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Steve asks, and Miller finally looks up. “Sir,” Steve adds hastily.

Miller flips the folder closed.

“Not today,” he says. “The army is a little more concerned with the men trying to avoid the war than the ones trying, however foolishly, to join it.”

Steve takes a deep breath.

“But let me make myself clear, Mr. Rogers. You continuing to try to skirt rules and regulations is a waste of valuable time and resources. Today, we’re letting you walk out the door. If this happens again, you will not be so lucky. Understood?”

Steve feels like he has been kicked in the chest. He nods down at the floor, surprised he is not on it for all the weight that has settled into his gut. 

“I understand.”

Miller picks up the folder and steps out of the exam room.

They don't even give Steve the form this time. He leaves the recruitment center like he entered it—empty-handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why The Sea by Gustave Courbet? Because I personally favor landscapes and especially seascapes, and it’s the only picture of a painting I took at The Met that was actually in the museum in the 30s/40s. It’s a [pretty cool painting](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436021?searchField=All&sortBy=Relevance&od=on&ft=Gustave+Courbet&offset=20&rpp=20&pos=21) though, especially if you also favor seascapes.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited for this update, because even as I'm wrapping up the draft, this is still one of my very favorite chapters in the whole fic.

> _July 7, 1943_
> 
> _Steve,_
> 
> _Sorry I complained about your place when I stopped by, pal. It’s like God saw fit to punish me for daring to comment on it because it’s hot as hell where we are. A few of the fellas stationed with us are from Texas and Louisiana and even they’re miserable, so a guy like me who’s barely ever left New York never had a shot._
> 
> _At least there’s plenty of water around. Maybe I’ll find some time in all the rest of this for a swim._
> 
> _Anyway, to the real reason I’m writing. Happy birthday, Steve. I hope you stopped by my Ma’s because I know she would’ve had a cake for you. She always did. If you didn’t, you’d better go by when you get this and apologize. Then accept whatever new cake she makes you, because we both know she will even if you don’t get this until clear into January of next year._
> 
> _If you did stop by though, tell me all about it. Don’t hold back. What kind of cake was it? Did the girls make you cards like they used to?_
> 
> _Onto my part. I had an ulterior motive for stopping by that day. Check under that loose floorboard by the radiator. You know the one. Hopefully I can give you your next one in person._
> 
> _Stay out of trouble (ha!) and look after everybody for me._
> 
> _TTEOTL,_
> 
> _Bucky_

July-October 1943

Bucky cannot see his watch properly, but it’s sometime after two in the morning. He doesn’t know what woke him at first, already shifting to his other side, planning on getting back to sleep. Then it registers—Theo Lipnicki is crying. He’s being quiet about it, holding it all in save the occasional soft, wretched gasp. He probably thinks no one will hear him, that they will all sleep through it. But Bucky is used to listening for his sisters or for Steve when he’s sick.

Bucky lets it go at first, staring up at the top of the tent while Lipnicki sobs in shuddering breaths. He should ignore it, let Lipnicki have this moment in private. Bucky rolls, intent on doing just that, but the crying goes on and on until Bucky cannot help but think that maybe ignoring it is the wrong approach.

“Lipnicki,” Bucky whispers, kneeling down beside him and wiping the sleep from his own eyes.

“Sarge, fuck, I’m sorry, fuck.” It comes out in pitiful gasping stutters. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I can’t fucking stop.”

Lipnicki is one of their youngest, his cheeks still full of baby fat. Bucky unscrews the lid on the canteen he hauled over and offers it up. “Won’t have you crying yourself to death. Gotta get you back to your ma and that gal of yours.”

Lipnicki whimpers softly, moving to sit up, wiping at his eyes with aggressive swipes of his palms even while tears keep flooding over his lower lashes. Bucky reaches out and claps a hand on his shoulder. It’s damp, but what isn’t in this humidity? The air in Algiers has been like soup since they got there.

“C’mon, drink up.” Bucky gives the canteen a slight nudge where Lipnicki holds it absently.

“Ain’t never been away from home this long,” Lipnicki says. “Me and Billy both over here. She’s all alone, Sarge. It ain’t right. It ain’t right that we gotta be away from home like this, and we don’t got a choice.”

“Teddy, you gotta breathe.” Bucky squeezes his shoulder. “In and out, pal.”

Lipnicki tries, gasping in a big breath.

“Sarge, what the fuck is going on?” That’ll be Harry Angelo.

“Go back to sleep Harry, I got it. Mess hall just ain’t agreeing with Lipnicki.”

“Been there. Watch for the goddamned scorpions in the latrine.” Angelo rolls back over, his snores firing back up in no time.

“I wanna go home, Sarge,” Lipnicki whispers pitifully, looking every bit the teenager he is. “I just wanna go home.”

Bucky dips his head toward the floor and summons a look he hopes is reassuring and comforting.

“We all do, Teddy,” he says. “But we’re here and we’re in it and that’s the hand we’ve all been dealt.” Bucky nudges the canteen again, breathing a relieved sigh when Lipnicki finally raises it to his mouth. “Every fella here has your back now. I can’t promise you much, but I can promise you that.”

“Tomorrow is a new day,” Joe Janosi mumbles from his bed next door. Bucky wonders how long he has been awake, but it doesn’t seem important.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” Bucky echoes.

Lipnicki nods and takes a deep breath, less ragged this time. The tears have stopped, for now anyway. He scrubs at his eyes with his palm one more time.

“You can get my canteen back to me in the morning, all right?”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Bucky stands up and claps him on the shoulder in response before heading back to bed.

In the morning, he finds his canteen sitting refilled on top of his footlocker. At breakfast, Lipnicki gives him a quiet nod. Otherwise, they don’t bring up the previous night at all.

* * *

The entire atmosphere in Algeria is confusion, and from the rumors going around, it isn’t much different in Morocco.

“Word is there was another red light meeting,” Janosi says. “What Sullivan said anyway when he came by for inventory in the mess.”

Bucky and the others are sitting along a wooden fence, all big timbers slapped together around the outpost.

“If the brass keeps hemming and hawing like this, we might spend the whole war here in Algeria,” Lenny Kaplan says, the legs of his uniform pants rolled up to catch a breeze.

“Think I’d take the Germans over the goddamn mosquitos.” Lipnicki slaps at his legs and frowns over at Kaplan’s hairy calves. “How come they don’t bother you for?”

“Because mosquitos like blood and all Kaplan’s got in his veins is piss and vinegar.” Bucky cocks his elbow to nudge Kaplan in the ribs.

Kaplan shoots him the finger. “Blow it out your barracks bag, Sarge.”

Bucky shoots him the finger back. “So what’s the word from this alleged big meeting?” Bucky watches Lipnicki move on from swatting at his legs to swat at his arms, before giving it all up and rolling his sleeves down.

“Well, you know the big wheels are always tight-lipped, but same shit as usual,” Janosi says, before puffing out his chest and lowering his voice in an apparent impression of Colonel Sullivan. “‘When they’re ready to move out, you all will be the first to know. Now tell me how many potatoes we’ve got left.’”

“No one knows their goddamned ass from a hole in the ground,” Kaplan says. “I mean it. We might be in Africa until they all surrender.”

“Well,” Bucky says, slapping his thighs and standing up. “We’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t we? How bout a dance, Janosi?” Bucky offers his hand.

“Oh, Sarge, I thought you’d never ask.” Janosi hops off the fence and makes a show of hitching up his pants before taking Bucky’s hand. They link and dance like kids, swinging around and around. On the fence, Lipnicki and Kaplan start butchering the hell out of a hummed Gershwin tune. (At least Bucky thinks it’s supposed to be Gershwin.)

They go round and round until everyone’s laughing too much to keep it going, and then Bucky and Janosi both take a bow to a rousing round of applause.

“Ah hell, missed all the fun again,” Harry Angelo says, strolling up while everyone is clapping. He looks over the scene, Bucky and Janosi both sweating, Lipnicki and Kaplan on the fence, Kaplan with as much skin exposed as he can get away with in polite company, Lipnicki covered like a nun. “All right,” Angelo says, scowling at Kaplan and Lipnicki both, “which one of you fuckers is gonna dance with me then?”

Everyone howls with fresh laughter that carries across the camp.

* * *

They all get pulled over to Arzew for extra training. It’s unreal what they’ve done to the place—a whole fake city set up for exercises. It’s good, Bucky supposes, that they’re getting a taste of it all before they get thrown into the real deal.

He perches on a roof, keeping his eyes on his own men the best he can while sweat drips off the tip of his nose. In the distance, something explodes. His men crouch down against the wall of a fake shop, keeping low. They’re being shot at, and yeah it’s their own people intentionally trying to miss by a wide berth, but it still makes Bucky nervous to know it’s real bullets and grenades going off down there.

Finger off the trigger, he trains his gun on one of the “enemy” soldiers just to be sure he could find an actual enemy in a similar situation. He does the math too, quickly figuring up distances and curvatures. He knows, even without taking the shot, that if this was real, he would have this guy.

A deep inhale, and he moves his gun away, focusing on the alternative targets he was given for sniper training. Seven targets in total, and his job is to find them as much as it is to shoot them. One after the other, he locates them through his scope—wooden cutouts in windows or positioned on sidewalks, all of them with a sloppy stripe of red on their arms.

Bucky only misses once, when a grenade goes off on the street below him and startles his shot wide. He breathes through his hammering heartbeat, reloads, and finds the target he missed.

He tells himself that when it matters, he won’t let even God Himself distract him.

* * *

The order comes, because as much as they joked that it never would, as much as General Clark had gone back and forth with Ike and the other brass about when and where the invasion would be, it was always going to come. Bucky knew it. His men knew it.

Bucky doesn’t sleep the night before the landing, and really when would he have even if he could settle with all the anxious energy in his body? He and his men are going in on the first round, moving on the beach at Paestum in the wee hours of the morning. There are no sniper nests for him there. When they land, he is just another soldier fighting his way through mines and barbed wire.

He sticks with his men, taking shots where he can, grabbing the backs of jackets when he cannot. They’re coming up on a German tank when Lipnicki slaps a hand on the back of his neck and pushes him down. The shot whizzes over his head.

“Fuck, Teddy, th—”

The thud of the bullet is so quiet for what it is, for what it takes. Bucky watches Lipnicki fall on the sand, his eyes glassy and empty where just a moment ago they had been anything but. Bucky has never seen anyone die before.

“Christ!” Bucky reaches for Lipnicki as though he can somehow stop what has already happened, but Janosi has him by the wrist, pulling him along, forcing his hand back to his gun.

“We can’t take him where we’re going!” Janosi screams over the fray. “Fuck it to hell, Sarge, but we can’t.”

Janosi keeps pulling him, Kaplan and Angelo grabbing him too. Hell, even Frank Peterson gets a handful, for all that they have mutually avoided each other. It takes a mine going off nearby to force Bucky back into his body, to force him to stop looking back to where Lipnicki has already melted into the shadows.

They close in on another tank, and Bucky feels fury uncoil inside of him, swallowing up everything else. Did this guy kill Teddy?

Doesn’t matter. Their job is to take out the tanks and here’s a fucking tank.

“Grenade!” Bucky holds out his hand. Janosi is there, slapping one into his hand with the pin pulled. In a way, it's like making an otherwise impossible shot. The math comes easy, his brain charting the arc through the air, the required force and angle. The hard part is the application. When he throws the grenade, it arcs past the point he meant it to, but that’s no matter. The hole is still big enough to catch it.

There are yells in German as they forge ahead, and then there’s a boom, and then there’s nothing. Not from the tank anyway.

Bucky takes out the gunner on the next tank with a well-aimed shot. Then he, Kaplan, and Peterson give Angelo and Janosi a boost up so they can fire down the hole and take out the rest of the crew.

A machine gun next. Bucky takes it over, turning it on the nearest gun crews before they even realize they are in danger.

That’s how the advance goes, all of them razing a path toward the trees just past the beach.

Even when they get there, they aren’t clear. There are Germans everywhere, trying their best to hold off the inevitable. Everything smells like gunpowder and burnt wood. Bucky trips over a body somewhere. It’s too dark to tell and he sure as hell doesn’t stop to check, so he tells himself it’s not one of theirs.

Two miles. They only had to make it two miles.

Only.

Another mine goes off nearby. Screams cut through the trees.

Bucky counts his men the best he can while he keeps moving, keeps fighting. He almost misses the German taking aim at Janosi, but he howls hellfire when he spots him. He needs a reload, so he runs him down on foot instead, drawing a knife to finish it.

No more. He won’t lose another. Not today.

By dawn, they are where they are supposed to be. Word comes through the patchy radio that the allies are unloading on the beach. Weapons and reinforcements. The proper invasion now that the path has been cleared for it.

The first thing Bucky does is hunt down paper and write a letter to Lipnicki’s Ma, something more personal than the one she will get from the US Army, something that illustrates what a good kid he was and that he didn’t suffer in the end.

Then and only then does he let himself find a place to sit with his men, to wrap his shaking fingers around a cigarette he barely tastes.

* * *

It isn’t over, because of course it’s not over. God only knows when it’ll be over. It’s a days-on-end clusterfuck.

“Fucking Clark FUBARed it is what it is,” Kaplan says.

Bucky doesn’t know if that is true or not, but he knows British and American forces are too spread out, that the Germans are converging on the Brits and that even though the 107th and 45th have been cruising into the mountains, the British forces are taking heavy hits.

It’s no surprise when the order comes to move the outer lines inward. 

Peterson dies before they get there. He dies ugly and bad. Bucky didn’t like him, couldn’t like anyone who had ever put hands on Steve, but it’s still a life.

It’s still a life.

* * *

It’s a slog. All through Italy, it’s a slog. Some days, they fight and fight and lose countless men over one whole foot of cursed earth.

“You know only one other army’s ever marched all the way up Italy before and taken Rome along the way?’ Angelo says. They’re in a trench, half-asleep with shelling in the distance. Bucky doesn’t even know where the fuck they are. They certainly weren’t the fellas to take Rome.

Hydra decided to add itself into the mix somewhere down south near the Volturno River, forcing another split in the Fifth Army. Now they’re a hodgepodge of Brits and Americans and a few Free French from Morocco.

“What?” Bucky asks, because it takes several seconds for Angelo’s words to register. Bucky hasn’t slept in two days for all the noise and Bed Check Charlies. Hydra’s supposed to be the high tech version of Hitler’s Army. So far, all they’ve done is make a lot of noise. Flyovers. Loudspeakers playing recorded gunfire at all hours of the night.

“In 536 AD, Belisarius marched through Italy. It was part of the Gothic War.” Angelo takes a drag off his cigarette. “Don’t ask me why out of everything I learned in college history, that’s the thing I fucking remember.”

“So you’re saying no one’s done this shit in over a thousand years?” Bucky asks. Next to him, Kaplan’s snoring. It’s fucking infuriating.

“If memory serves.” Angelo nods.

Janosi opens his eyes from where he’s leaning against the trench wall. “Then what in the fuck are we doing here?”

* * *

They are between Imola and Forli when they see the sign.

“Free baths for American and Britain,” Janosi reads.

“Could be a trap,” Falsworth says. He’s a limey, part of the 3rd Parachute Brigade they fell in with after Hydra threw their hat into the ring.

“It could also be fucking glorious.” Dugan. Another American from the 36th division—a Boston boy who got caught up with the Texans on account of that’s where the circus was when he enlisted.

“Well, you go right on in Dum-Dum,” Bucky says. “We’ll wait.”

“All by my lonesome with an empty dance card, huh? Where’s your sense of adventure, Sarge?”

“I’ll fucking go,” Janosi says. “Sarge, how about some cover?”

Bucky glances around and finds a suitable nest. “Yeah, okay.”

In the end, none of it is necessary. It’s legitimate. There are hot showers and deep tubs. Partial dividers for a sense of privacy none of them have had since before the war. Heated fucking floors. It’s their own personal goddamned bathhouse in the Italian countryside, courtesy of a woman named Celia whose husband went underground with the Resistenza.

“Holy shit, I feel renewed,” Dugan calls.

“Stop beating your gums, Dum-Dum,” Kaplan says. “Some of us are trying to goddamned relax.”

“Oh I’ll beat something all right,” Dugan mumbles, everyone erupting into a fit of laughter.

“The fucking mouths on all of you. Christ.” Bucky sinks lower in the tub, the hot water leaching some of the soreness from his muscles.

“Oh see the chaplain, Sarge,” Kaplan shoots back.

There’s more teasing after that, more laughs and jeers. Their baths go cold. It seems like the impossible bit of levity is coming to an end when Janosi gets out, glances at his draining bathtub, and says “ah, to hell with it” before filling the tub anew.

They all follow suit.

That night, another good mile or two past the factory, they run into trouble.

Kaplan doesn't make it.

All Bucky can think is that if he has to go out in this godforsaken war, he hopes it comes at the end of a good goddamned day.

* * *

Mail finds them and Bucky devours letters from his Ma and sisters and Steve. He reads them over and over. He smiles at the thought that Becca and Steve have each other and that his family hasn’t let Steve pull away in his absence.

He smiles too at the subtlety in Steve’s words.

_Do you remember the night the Dodgers played when we had to listen to the radio on the fire escape because it was too hot inside?_

Of course Bucky remembers. He also remembers them taking each other on the floor of the tenement after the sun had long gone and the air had cooled enough to tolerate it. He remembers skin slippery with sweat and how Steve had tasted like salt when Bucky got his mouth on him.

It’s hard to find somewhere private in a war. But the past few weeks of fighting have felt like a lifetime, and it has long been an unspoken rule that if a fella needs some alone time, they all look the other way and pretend they don’t see or hear it (at least not until later when the ribbing starts).

“Must’ve been a hell of a sugar report, Sarge,” Janosi teases him later on.

“Must have,” Bucky says.

* * *

Their next fight is near Azzano. They are losing until reinforcements arrive. Except they aren’t reinforcements at all.

Apparently Hydra has more than just noise machines and airplanes and Germans in different uniforms. Apparently Hydra has decided to start their own war. On everybody.

Angelo goes in a beam of blue. There one second. Gone the next.

Bucky surrenders with the rest of his men. His only regret is that he hadn’t gotten around to answering all those letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a ton of notes for this chapter because there is a lot going on in it history-wise. You can skip them if you're not interested in the Too Much Research element of this story lmao. 
> 
> Regarding Bucky signing off with TTEOTL - Acronyms were a thing in WWII letters. Wartime letters were read and censored to protect sensitive info to the war effort, so acronyms may have been a way to preserve some semblance of privacy. Some of them were pretty racy too (e.g. CHINA - Come Home I’m Naked Already), while others were sweet (SWAK - sealed with a kiss). So there’s some historical precedence for Bucky choosing to use an acronym here, especially considering he’d want to keep his correspondence with Steve seemingly platonic. 
> 
> I owe a lot of this chapter to Mark W. Clark’s memoir A Calculated Risk. I don’t remember where or how I got it because it’s not a very popular WW2 book by any means (and Clark isn't v popular with a lot of ww2 history buffs either apparently), but I found it on my bookshelf and realized it dealt exclusively with the invasion of Italy and the time leading up to it, which according to [mandarou’s absolute gift of a timeline, without which this fic would not be possible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878852) is likely how Bucky got into the war, especially given that he was captured at Azzano. 
> 
> Re: “red light meeting” - Red lights were used over the doors of meeting rooms to indicate that a meeting with sensitive information was taking place. I have no idea if the actual phrase “red light meeting” was ever used, but I don't know that it wasn't?? 
> 
> Sullivan (aka Colonel Joseph P. Sullivan) is a real person who served as the quartermaster to the entire Fifth Army, which I’ve decided to fold the 107th into even though they weren’t there. Clark spoke highly of him saying, “I knew my Fifth Army would not lack chow or clothing with him around.” As for his characterization here, [shrug emoji]. 
> 
> Yes, an actual fake town was built near Arzew for training and yes they used live ammunition and blew shit up, which is still a thing I am trying to wrap my head around because what????
> 
> In reality, the 36th division landed at Paestum. Since I had to wiggle the 107th in there, I gave them that territory. 
> 
> The bath story is based on an account by Captain Bruce Bliven Jr. where his men happened upon a place in Holland offering free baths to allied troops.


	3. Three

> _July 19, 1943_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _Thanks for the birthday present, Buck. I put ‘em to good use._
> 
> _I keep thinking about that time we snuck into that Dodgers game, how they lost and you were so sour because you thought it’d ruin my birthday. And me, I was just happy to be there with my best pal._
> 
> _Your Ma’s cake was apple by the way. She warmed it in the oven the way she always does, so everything smelled like cinnamon the whole time I was over. Cards from Janie and Ruthie that I got to read between them climbing all over me. Becca made me a new scarf because she’s learning to knit. It’s a little lumpy but it’ll keep me warm this winter._
> 
> _Wasn’t right without you there._
> 
> _TTEOTL,_
> 
> _Steve_
> 
> _[Enclosed is an additional page of sketches featuring several drawings of the Barnes family, a colored drawing of a cake, a lumpy pile of some kind of fabric, and doodles of handmade birthday cards from Bucky’s sisters]_

* * *

In August, Steve picks up a job down in the northern part of South Greenfield that takes him there a few days a week. He has been commissioned to paint the walls of a nursery for a well-off woman named Rita Murphy. Her husband is over in the war, but pretty high up in the brass apparently.

There’s a recruitment office between the trolly stop and Rita’s place. It’s one Steve never tried his luck at, and when the mural is complete and his pockets are full of enough cash for a couple months if he’s frugal, he finds himself standing outside, watching people file in and out.

“I know you’re not actually thinking of going in there.” A woman’s voice. Steve knows it well. “Then again, if you did Bucky might swim home just to sock you one. So maybe you should.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Steve asks, looking at Rebecca Proctor. She’s dressed sharply in Army olive, that same brown hair of Bucky’s piled into victory rolls atop her head before cascading down in a waterfall of curls. Her lipstick is a shock of red on an otherwise drab street.

And hell, if she wasn’t married and if Steve’s heart hadn’t been snatched up by another Barnes long ago…

“Had some business,” she says, “and then I guess that ‘Steve’s about to get himself in trouble again’ instinct is a Barnes family trait. Are my ears pink, Steve? Because I could’ve sworn they were burning.”

“Wasn’t actually gonna go in.” Steve puts his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think.”

“What else is new? Walk me to the trolly.” She offers Steve her arm, and he takes it, trying not to think about what a funny pair they must make. Becca is so tall even without shoes, and she has on her little uniform heels, her steps clicking softly against the concrete.

“How’s the Army treating you?” Steve asks.

“Better than I expected when I signed up,” Becca says. “I thought I’d spend all day answering phones and filing, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Records are important, but I just…”

“No, I wanna hear.”

“It’s not that.” Becca tosses him a small smile. “There are things I can’t talk about is all.”

At the corner where they should turn right, Becca steers him left instead. They continue down the street until they come to a small courtyard. She takes a seat on one of the two available benches, tucking one ankle behind the other. Steve joins her, pulling his jacket tight against the early autumn chill. The area is quiet and empty except for a couple sitting far away on the grass. Steve recognizes a furlough when he sees one. Every move between them looks like a ticking clock.

“How are you holding up?” Becca asks.

“Just finished up a job. A big one with good pay.” He watches the couple clasp hands and can feel the white knuckles even if he can’t see them. “It should keep me afloat for a while.” 

“I didn’t mean financially, Steve, though obviously you can always come to us if you’re in trouble. Actually come to us even if you aren’t. You know Ma loves having you at her table.”

Steve looks down at the grass, lightly running his foot across it and watching the blades bend and pop back to attention.

“Guess I feel a little useless,” Steve admits. “Every news reel’s about our brave guys over there fighting it out, about how everyone’s doing their part. And here I am and no one’ll even let me. And Buck’s…”

Becca’s quiet for several seconds.

“I guess I really should’ve done this sooner, but I didn’t have the pull. Now I do.”

“What?” Steve turns to look at her again, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Did you know Bucky always hated playing chess with you?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure if he ever told you that.”

“Not in so many words,” Steve says, remembering the night that Bucky had shoved the chess board onto the floor halfway through a game. Steve had been spitting mad and ready to fight about it before Bucky dragged Steve down onto the floor, his mouth hot and insistent.

Becca hums.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she says, “but I think I know a way you can still do your part, Steve.”

* * *

It’s the middle of September when Steve finds out that Becca works in intelligence under the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Bucky had always been aces at math, and somewhere in his mind, Steve had the vague notion that Becca was also. But he hadn’t thought much about it.

Apparently math is a huge skill in code breaking.

“When I went into the recruiter, there was an agent on loan from London fishing for ideal recruits for some program SSR is working on,” Becca says. “I guess the sergeant over the center had sent someone to pick up food for lunch and they were trying to figure up the split for the bill and I couldn’t help myself. She overheard me, and that’s how I ended up here trying to crack the Wehrmacht’s encryption, among a lot of other things I’ll hopefully be able to talk to you about soon.”

“You know I’m not so good at numbers, right?” Steve asks. “I can do the basic figures with a piece of paper, but I’m not Buck. Or you.”

“You’re not here to break codes, Steve,” Becca says, knocking on an office door. The man who answers looks bone-tired, his hair and complexion both shades of gray. “Colonel Hansen, this is Steve Rogers, and I think he could pass your little test.”

The colonel sizes Steve up, his eyes looking him over head to toe. Steve stands up straighter. He has on his best clothes, the ones he only wears to mass and only on holidays at that. His shoes are so shiny he could see his face in them earlier that morning.

“Sir,” Steve says, offering his hand.

“Come on in,” the colonel says, moving aside with a glance from Steve to Becca. “Mrs. Proctor, I believe there’s some new intel you’re supposed to be going over with the team.”

“Of course.” She salutes him perfectly, then leaves Steve alone in the colonel’s cramped little office.

“Have a seat,” Hansen says, and Steve takes a chair, his knees nearly knocking against the front of Hansen’s desk. Hansen slides back into his own chair with a few metallic squeaks. His desk is a mess of different file folders and loose papers with a few German, Russian, and Japanese translation dictionaries relegated to the corner where they’re very nearly falling off. Steve sits quietly while Hansen roots around and mutters to himself before unearthing a thin brown folder. “Here we go,” he says, sliding on a pair of glasses and opening the cover. “Rogers, Steven Grant.”

“Yes, sir?” Steve hadn’t really been expecting them to have a whole file on him already.

“You aren’t sure if you’re Steven Grant Rogers?” Hansen asks, raising a bushy gray eyebrow at him.

“No, sir.” Steve fidgets. “I mean yes, sir. I am. Steven Rogers.”

Hansen hums and looks back down at the file. “Apparently you’re on the list.”

“Uh, list?”

“Every recruitment office in New York has your picture, son,” Hansen says. “With orders to arrest you if you so much as walk in the door.”

Steve slumps down in his seat, only stopping when his knees finally do hit the desk. Oh well, back to doing art for pregnant war wives and stretching his butter rations. Unfortunate that he has to disappoint Becca though.

“Lot of men are doing their best to get out of being sent to the war.” Hansen shuts the folder and pulls his glasses off, tucking them back into his pocket. He looks at Steve with sharp brown eyes. “What’s got you so eager?”

Steve sits quietly, contemplating that question. “Is this the test?”

“This is the test to determine whether or not I let you take the test.” Hansen continues to stare. Steve glances at one of the maps on the wall, a plain map of Europe and Asia. No marks of war. Just the names of distant places—some scheduled by fate to go through hell very soon, some already there.

“I’ve spent my whole life fighting for things that matter,” Steve says. “They were small fights, but I did what I thought was right and stood up when I thought somebody needed to, no matter what it cost me. This… This is a big fight, bigger than me, bigger than anybody, and I guess I just figure what kind of guy would I be—what did I do all that fighting for?—if I didn’t try my damnedest to stand up now?”

That gets another eyebrow raise from Hansen. On the wall, the clock ticks, its pendulum swaying to and fro.

“There’s a room across the hall,” Hansen says. “On the table, you will find a map. It’s labeled with troops and their positions. There is a folder with additional intel beside it. Your job is to tell me which of the enemy troops we attack first. I do advise you to take the time to think it over.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve gets up quickly and makes his way across the hall from Hansen’s office.

Sure enough, there’s a map set up on a table. The enemy troops on it are all from fictional countries, but the map is the United States. The American troops are set up in a line with enemies on three sides, and the Alabama River running through the center of the chaos. According to the scale (and Steve’s memory of Mr. Edwards’ geography lessons), they’re all too close for retreat to be an option.

His brow furrowed tightly together, Steve picks up the folder and sits down.

Three hundred American troops. An estimated five hundred fighting for Transia. A thousand fighting for Ostus. Eight hundred for Uplaud. Transia has heavy weaponry in the form of tanks and artillery according to intelligence reports. The American Troops have the possibility of air support, but numbers at the nearby base are low after months of fighting. Plus Ostus and Uplaud both have heavy anti-aircraft weaponry. Estimated loss of life in airborne troops would be 60-70%.

Steve closes the folder and stands up again, circling the map. He thinks through each attack. Troops are outnumbered, and the enemy with the lowest number of troops still has the firepower to shoot them like fish in the barrel.

He lets each battle play out in his mind. He doesn’t quite know what it would look like, but he fills in the details based on the map’s terrain. In every one, there are heavy losses. In real life battles, there's always the human factor. Humans rally and sometimes rise to impossible tasks. But even if that happened, even if there was a scenario in which the Americans were able to pull out a miracle victory, the losses in every direction would be heavy.

There’s not a good answer. Or…

Steve knocks on the door of Hansen’s office.

“Well?” Hansen asks, leaning against the door frame.

“The river,” Steve says. “All three countries have bases up the river and poor air support, so it’s likely their supply line. Choke it out. Use our own air support to drop supplies on our guys instead of going in for a direct attack. Eventually at least one of them will give, giving our boys the room to either retreat or bring in reinforcements.”

Hansen stares at him, his face giving away nothing. Then he turns on his heels and marches to his desk, picking up the phone.

“Esparza, could you come down here please?”

The clicking of heels precedes a plump, light brown woman with dark hair rolled up in a coil at the back of her head.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Mr. Rogers is our newest civilian consultant. Mr. Rogers, meet Vera Esparza, one of our top strategists.”

“Oh.”

Esparza offers her hand and Steve takes it.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Rogers.” She seals it with a firm shake. “Right this way.”

* * *

Steve goes through three jam-packed weeks of training and onboarding. In the first couple of days, he signs so many different things that address what parts of his work he is and isn’t allowed to talk about that he isn’t even sure what’s okay by the end of it. When he writes his next letter to Bucky, he just says that he finally found a way to do his part and he’s actually getting to work with Becca some.

Bucky seems happy with that when he writes back.

_Glad to know someone’s keeping you outta trouble since I’m not there to do it._

There’s more in his letter, more of those subtle hints that he misses Steve as bad as Steve misses him. Near the end, he hides a sly reference to an evening they spent together, talking about how he finally got a few seconds to himself the night before and couldn’t get it off his mind.

It doesn’t take a civilian strategist to the SSR to understand exactly what he means.

Steve pictures Bucky’s uniform hat perched crooked on his sweaty curls, his hips rolling into his hand like they always did when he was putting on a show.

Closing his eyes, Steve pulls himself off slowly, partially for his own enjoyment, partially for the enjoyment it’ll give Bucky when he finally gets the letter Steve writes back.

* * *

“It’s starting to get cold out there,” the old woman says when Steve walks into the shop and slips his wet umbrella into the stand by the door.

“It is. Wish I could remember what I did with my sun hat.” She lets him into the building with a small smile. Downstairs, he pins on his ID badge and makes his way to the training classrooms. Most of his studying is independent reading and watching videos, but occasionally Esparza or someone else from the team drops in to give him an additional lesson.

It’s just him this morning though, so he cracks open another book, pulls his journal from his newly-acquired satchel, and starts to take notes.

Esparza comes in just before lunch.

“Rogers, how are you coming along?” she asks.

“I think I’ve watched all the videos. This is my second read of Clausewitz.”

Esparza smiles warmly.

“We just received some intel from Italy. Think you’re ready for some hands-on training?”

Steve takes a deep breath. It was one thing to make a suggestion when everyone involved was a fictional number on a piece of paper. Going forward though, every decision he helps make will impact real lives.

He has to make it a point to never forget that.

“Yes ma’am, I think I am.”

It takes hours to come to a decision, to list it all out and send it up the chain.

After, he writes to Bucky to leech some of the tension from his bones. He can’t tell him any of it, so he sketches a half-bare tree near the tenement instead.

_You always did like this time of year._

* * *

The telegram comes on sixth of November. Steve spends the better part of an hour vomiting in the sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Women working as codebreakers in World War 2 was actually [a pretty big thing.](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/how-women-codebreakers-wwii-helped-win-war-180965058/) Men who had previously held those roles went to war, which left those spaces open. Of course, the SSR is a unique entity that never existed, so who knows what their codebreaking ranks looked like before? But you know, even if the SSR hadn't scooped her up, who's to say that Becca wouldn't have ended up doing the exact same thing? 
> 
> Anyway, I'm not a military strategist. If you ever find yourself in a war happening along the Alabama River, three close enemies from fictional countries closing in, do not rely on this fic for advice. 
> 
> Continued thanks to everyone who has read this so far, and all of my love forever to [my artist](https://twitter.com/not_worms) for bringing one of Steve's sketches and Becca Barnes to life.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Loe for helping me with French and to Hatice for helping me with German. 
> 
> With one exception (because a character translates it for you), non-English words are presented as links, which should allow you to hover over them for translations.
> 
> Please heed the additional tags above re: torture/medical torture specifically (including needles). This story is not a torture porn and I am not more descriptive than I feel I need to be, but if those are things for you, protect yourselves accordingly.

> _November 8, 1943_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _I should’ve gone dancing with you. Why was I so_

**October - November** **1943**

Captured.

They spend four days marching in the rain and cold. A lot of the wounded don’t make it. The lucky ones are shot before they are left behind. Bucky barely scrapes past being one of them on the last day. If not for Dugan grabbing him by the back of his uniform every time he coughs and stumbles, he probably would’ve fallen down hours ago and—one way or another—never gotten back up.

He tries not to think too hard about what it might have meant if the march from Azzano to wherever the fuck they are had been longer.

They put them into cages when they get there. Bucky winds up with Dugan, Falsworth, and Janosi. Two familiar faces make this easier if there is any making it easier. There are new fellas too. Jones, Lowery, Morita, Minetti, and Dernier.

There’s food if it can be called that. Whatever it is, it’s worse than D rations, but they choke it down.

The Hydra bastards come right after dinner and walk cage to cage, opening them and pulling out men as they see fit. Some are the ones who talk back. Others, there doesn’t appear to be a rhyme or reason for.

The thing about Hydra that’s different from the regular old Nazi fuckers is that they don’t show their faces. The guards who open up Bucky’s cage are masked, their words muffled behind them.

“Ist dieser hier stark genug?”

He grabs Minetti. When they close the cage, they drag him in another direction than the others.

“Where are they taking him?” Bucky asks, looking to Jones.

“They didn’t say,” Jones says.

“Well, what the hell did they say?” Janosi asks.

“They were looking for someone strong enough,” Jones says. “Didn’t say what for.”

“Well Sarge is safe then,” Dugan jokes weakly. Right on cue, Bucky launches into another coughing fit, sagging down onto the floor of the cage and resting his back against the bars. He knows what this is, has seen Steve like this more than enough times that he doesn’t even need a doctor to tell him.

He barely sleeps that night for the chills and shakes, even as every man in his cage sacrifices their jackets to cover him.

* * *

A week goes by. Minetti never comes back. The guards take another fella the same direction. Bucky doesn’t know his name. He’s from a cage way down the line.

Bucky goes to work when they make him. He coughs and shakes his way through it because he knows if he stops… Other men have stopped and disappeared. They sure as shit weren’t punching tickets home.

All he can think about with every weapon he helps assemble is Steve. If Steve could survive every time pneumonia hit him, then Bucky can grit his way through this. So he works, and he does his best to rest enough even though Hydra never seems to let up.

Unsurprisingly, he gets worse.

Azzano was in the middle of October, and someone named Connolly in one of the other cages has been keeping a rough handle on the days and passing it down the line.

By his best account, it’s two days before November when Bucky drops the box.

You can tell the Hydra brass from the fodder two ways. First, their uniforms are nicer. Second, they actually show their faces. He’s known for a while that Obersturmbannführer Lohmer is important to Schmidt, who as far as Bucky can tell is the Hitler of Hydra. Jones has gleaned a lot from eavesdropping, and it seems Hydra has decided to play their own game. Apparently Schmidt wrote Hitler his own Dear John letter, and now it’s them versus every other player in the war. Only, no one really knows that except Hydra and the SS.

Today Obersturmbann führer Lohmer is running inspections on the weapons facility. Bucky is working his usual position. Even rogue Nazis understand the efficiency that comes with training one guy on one job. The only problem is that a guy getting progressively more and more sick is not efficient at all. Morita has the line next to him and has been picking up his slack behind Hydra backs for days, but even though he studied engineering and works a hair faster than everybody else on these high tech weapons, he can still only keep up for so long. 

“You,” Lohmer says, singling Bucky out of the line, and he has to fight back a cough, his ribs aching as they expand and contract inside of him. “Move that box down the line.”

Bucky’s been feeling dizzy all morning. He focuses hard on moving one foot in front of the other and staying upright. Hands under the box. Everything good so far.

It’s heavy or at least it feels like it is, and his arms aren’t up for it anymore. Neither is the rest of him, apparently. When the box falls, Bucky falls with it.

Lohmer is on him in an instant, screaming in German. He pulls a baton from the belt of another guard and starts swinging.

At some point, Bucky blacks out. Probably for the best.

He wakes up in the cage in fits and starts, the others muttering around him.

“…another day in him…”

“…Obershitbendfucker Lohmer…”

“…Fischer…in line…”

“…Jones, tell Frenchie…”

“[Il faut que ça lui tombe dessus…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67430287#1)”

“So that’s the plan then?”

“What plan?” Bucky slurs, blinking awake, amazed that he can be both sweating and shivering at the same time, his whole body wracked with chills and every shake making him hurt after the beating Lohmer gave him. The men are all asleep though, save Janosi who seems to be nodding off at his side.

“Hmm?” Janosi sits up straighter. “Go back to sleep, Bucky,” he says, picking up one of Bucky’s many donated jackets and settling it back over his torso. Bucky wishes he’d tuck it in to keep as much of the chill at bay as possible, but Janosi’s not his Ma. She’s safe all the way back in Brooklyn. So very far away from shit like this.

He’ll probably never see her again.

He’ll probably never see any of them again. At least he’s dying with some of the best men he’s ever known.

Bucky wakes again in the morning to the slamming of cage doors. There’s a ruckus that goes beyond shift changes. Dugan, Dernier, and Jones all get thrown back in with the rest of them, the door banging closed.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, wincing when he sits up, jackets pooling around him on the floor.

“There’s been a terrible accident. Lohmer’s dead,” Jones says, his face blank, and Bucky looks around at the others. Every face is as expressionless as Jones’s. Except for Dugan’s.

“You bunch of fucking morons,” Bucky says, but all the bite is missing as he fights off a cough that inevitably comes anyway. “Must be my curse— in life— to be surrounded— by do-gooding— by do-gooding dipshits.”

Whatever bullshit they pulled works too. While Hydra’s figuring out what to do with them, they more or less abandon them all in their cages. Bucky gets his first day off since before Azzano, and by the time the little bit of daylight fades from the windows up above them, the shaking has stopped.

Sturmbannführer Fischer takes over for Lohmer. He’s still a mean son of a bitch, but he’s not on Lohmer’s level.

“Leave that one where it lies,” is what he says (at least according to Jones) when he comes through with the guards to gather the first shift, informing all of them in mostly decent English that their rations are being cut for the week.

Bucky lives another day, then another. He gives everyone their jackets back. Then he makes it yet another day more.

Maybe his luck is turning around after all. If they can all hold on long enough for the Allies to find them here…

The guards come in the evening. Two of them open the door of their cage.

Falsworth, Lowery, and Janosi are out doing their shifts.

“[Wieso sollte er diesen wollen?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67430287#2)” the one on the left asks.

“[Die gesunden sterben. Vielleicht ist er es Leid, gute Männer zu verlieren.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67430287#2)”

They laugh and reach for Bucky, grabbing one arm each and hauling him up.

“[Komm. Der erste Stock gehört dir.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67430287#2)”

Jones and Dernier jump to their feet and Dugan tries to follow him out, getting a stick to the face for it before they close the cage door.

“You know, someday I’m gonna have a stick of my own,” Dugan growls with blood running from his eyebrow, shaking the bars of the cage. But it’s no use. They’re dragging Bucky away.

“Fellas,” Bucky yells back, because what’s the use in compliance when it he’s going somewhere people don’t come back from? “Any of you make it out, you check on my family for me. You tell my Ma she did every goddamned thing right and make sure anybody who tries to marry one of my baby sisters is good enough for them. Tell Steve—” Bucky gets cut off by a guard yelling at him in German. He raises his voice to carry over it. “Tell Steve to take his time joining me! I swear to Christ, I’ll haunt every last one of you if you don’t, I—”

The door closes behind them and Bucky goes limp in the guard’s arms, forcing them to haul him up one metal staircase and then another. If he’s going to die, he sure as shit isn’t gonna make it easy for them.

The tips of his toes slide along concrete floors in dank brick-lined hallways.

Twice, the guards stop and hit him, ordering him to walk. Twice, Bucky laughs in their faces.

Finally they force him onto a table, binding him with leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles. They leave him alone in the dark.

There he stays, long enough that time loses its value somewhere among the dark shadows cast on the wall. The windows must overlook the factory floor. That’s the only explanation for what little light he does have. It’s too late to be daylight, too artificially blue to be anything except that room.

Are Janosi, Lowery, and Falsworth still working? Do they even know yet that Bucky’s gone?

Janosi. He wishes he’d yelled something back for Janosi after all the shit they’ve been through together since boot camp. Everyone always thought of Steve as his best friend, and he was, but he was so much more than that too. If he had a best friend like most fellas had a best friend, well, that’d probably be Janosi now.

A door somewhere finally opens after God only knows how long, the lights overhead flickering on. Something with wheels squeaks and squeals its way across the concrete towards him. Bucky doesn’t look in that direction. Whoever it is, he won’t give them the satisfaction. He’s not afraid. On some level, he’s been ready to die since the draft card came in the mail. Honestly, when Lohmer had him on the floor, he’d thought that was it. Similarly on that beach in Italy before Teddy— Bucky shakes his head.

“Ah, Sergeant Barnes, you’ve arrived as requested.”

Bucky looks then. The man is barely tall enough to loom over the table. Hell, Steve would probably tower over this guy, and thinking of Steve makes Bucky smile in spite of it all.

“Fuck you,” Bucky says.

“Very well. I am Dr. Arnim Zola.” He moves away from Bucky, grabbing hold of a tiny metal table and pulling it closer. From it, he plucks a folder that he leafs through, occasionally wetting his fingertips with his tongue when the pages stick together. “It says here you were ill.”

“Yep.”

“Would you like to tell me about your symptoms?”

“Nope.”

“Then I suppose we will get started.” Zola puts the folder aside and reaches for Bucky’s sleeve, undoing the buttons near his wrist and rolling it up his arm.

From the metal table, he picks up a syringe, examining it in the light. He sets it down and grabs another.

“This may sting, Sergeant.” He smiles, then plunges the needle into Bucky’s arm.

At first Bucky feels nothing save the pinch of the needle. Zola adds the contents of the second and third syringes. Still nothing.

“Am I supposed to be feeling any different, becau—”

Someone is screaming, a high shrieking sound that pierces the air, and it’s Bucky. Bucky is screaming, every part of his body an inferno that feels like it’s burning him up from the inside.

He forces his lungs to stop firing air through his voice box. He won’t scream for them. He won’t.

“Sergeant,” Bucky says through teeth pressed so tightly together they might break. “Sergeant James Barnes, 107th, 32557038.” He repeats it over and over, even as his muscles seem to seize and melt under his skin.

“Oh, you are quite interesting Sergeant Barnes,” Zola says with a grin. “Perhaps you will be our first survivor.” Bucky barely hears the metal table squeak away.

He burns all night. Every time he thinks he’s used to it, it gets worse. There’s an ebb to it too. It lures him into thinking over and over again that he must be coming through the other side of it all, only to drop him back in.

In the morning, Zola comes back with two guards who escort Bucky to a bathroom that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the last war. They hover until Bucky’s done, then drag him right back.

“Congratulations, Sergeant. Most don’t make it through the first round.”

The first round? Bucky doesn’t ask. He won’t.

“Sergeant James Barnes, 107th, 32557038.”

“I suppose if you were weak enough to break already, then you would not have survived,” Zola says. “No matter. Every stone can be cracked.” 

There are more syringes. These ones make Bucky freeze, like everything inside of him is made of icy glass that he swears he can feel breaking.

In the evening, Zola stops in again. More injections. But first he spends several minutes examining the crook of Bucky’s elbow.

“You’re doing very well, Soldier. Much better than the others.”

“Sergeant James…”

The pain lessens with every round until he actually manages some sporadic sleep here and there, broken only by the guards escorting him to the bathroom and Zola’s little visits.

How long has it been though? Two days? Three weeks?

Eventually, Zola stops bringing syringes full of things and starts using them to take instead. He fills tubes upon tubes with blood. He collects hair and swabs of spit.

The next time he comes, Schmidt is with him.

“You have survived your metamorphosis, Soldier. Congratulations,” Schmidt says. 

When Bucky repeats his name and serial number, he does it through his teeth. Schmidt only grins.

“Yes, I am told your will is quite strong. We will tear it apart eventually.”

Yeah? Try me, pal.

“So you believe it finally worked, Dr. Zola?”

Schmidt clearly makes Zola nervous. When he answers, he puts Bucky in the mind of a squirrel, chittering and wringing his hands nervously.

“I have not finished concluding my tests, sir, but—”

“ _Tests_ ,” Schmidt spits. “Here is your test Dr. Zola.”

Schmidt pulls a knife from his belt, the Hydra symbol engraved into its handle, and jabs it right into Bucky’s thigh to the hilt.

Bucky, as so sworn, does not scream.

Several hours later, when Zola checks the wound, there is nothing to be found. Not even a scar.

“Make me more, Dr. Zola,” Schmidt says.

“Sir, we do not even know what it is about Barnes that helped him survive it. And we need the prisoners to finish up work for Project Valkyrie.”

“I will be back in a week, Doctor. I expect results.”

* * *

They keep Bucky in a new cage erected within view of the table. They fetch Lowery. He’s gone within a few hours. Bucky doesn’t know the next three men, all of them brought in at the same time. When Zola returns to find them dead, he flips over his tiny metal table then stalks toward Bucky’s cage.

“What is it that makes you special, Mr. Barnes? Why you?”

Bucky stares in response.

“Guards!”

The guards come running, slowing when they assess that there is no immediate danger.

“Bring me every single man who shared Sergeant Barnes’s cell.”

“No!” Bucky gets to his feet. “You leave them the fuck alone, you goddamned Kraut son of a bitch.”

The guards are gone though. Bucky sinks to the floor of his cell.

Except the guards don’t make it back. Several minutes later, the factory alarms start to sound. Outside of the walls, he can hear gunfire and explosions.

He thinks it’s a rescue mission at first, until he’s being cuffed and escorted from the cell, taken to a truck where he’s chained to the floor by his wrists and ankles.

Zola slips into the back with nothing but a file folder and his coat, looking sweaty and pale.

A handful of guards follow, one of them hauling ass past Bucky to bang three times on the back of the cab.

Explosions. So many explosions. Bucky worries at his chains, hoping all his friends made it out. He’ll probably never know, which means that in his mind at least, it can be true. In his mind, they can all be in Allied hands, all of them on their way home from this horrible place. And that’s enough, even if he’s here.

Until…

“Sarge?”

Janosi surfaces from the floor by the guards’ feet, scrambling across the cabin toward Bucky before they can grab at him and pull him back. Bucky’s heart sinks.

“Christ, we thought you were dead.”

“Joe, what’s going on?” Bucky asks.

“We’ve been planning it for days and finally had the opportunity.”

“Who?”

“All of us. Morita and Falsworth cooked it up, then brought the rest of us in,” Janosi smiles briefly, then frowns like he’d never done it. “Sure wish I could’ve gone with ‘em though.”

The guard finally seizes Janosi and pulls him away to the other end of the truck where Zola has his finger pointed at a spot on the bench.

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly, his eyes on the space between his shackled feet. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D rations are a reference to a "chocolate" bar given to troops as emergency rations. That sounds great, but in reality they purposely made them taste like absolute crap so that troops wouldn't be tempted to eat them Just Because. These bars were made from a mixture of chocolate and oat flour among other things, and that proved to be so hard to manufacture using factory equipment that they ended up having to mix and press them into molds by hand. Soldiers hated these things and often just tossed them. D rations were notorious for causing upset stomachs and were so rock hard that you pretty much had to saw off slivers with a knife to eat them. 
> 
> I am yet again indebted to [Mandarou's timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878852/chapters/24170622) for this chapter, though I took a couple liberties with the info on Lohmer.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone following along, even as we get into the angst part of this angst-with-a-happy-ending story. Please know that I have written an ending that is just So Tender. 
> 
> And a big thanks to [not_worms](https://twitter.com/not_worms) for yet another stunning artwork. I owe you my life.

> _[Undated, from the contents of Bucky's footlocker]_
> 
> _Stevie,_
> 
> _I picked you for this one just in case it ever sees the light of day, because I thought it’d be too much for Ma and the girls, and I gotta get this out before it tears me up inside._
> 
> _I feel like every fucking letter I send is a goddamned lie. I can’t say what we’re really doing. I can’t talk about the bodies on the beaches and in the trenches and on the roads, and some of them are just fucking kids who don’t have a damned bit of business being anywhere but home. Not here with all this noise. Christ, Steve, I thought New York was loud._
> 
> _You remember that time we went to the pictures to see Dark Journey and the damn thing got stuck and it was just that few seconds of bombing repeating over and over? It’s like that how it goes on and on and on, only no one’s on their way to fix it, and you can’t just walk out. You just have to live with it until it stops and you can finally rest just enough that you don’t start screaming the second it starts up again._
> 
> _No one should have to see this or know about it. I don’t think a man is supposed to have to see shit like this in his life. I don’t know about God anymore, about him putting us in some perfect garden where we’d never suffer, about the devil ruining it all. But I gotta think humanity fucked it all up somewhere along the way if this is how we spend our time._
> 
> _Someday, when we’ve won the war and the world is ready to hear it, I want you to tell them that all of us lived in a world of death. That’s all war is, and we should do our damnedest not to have another one._
> 
> _I told you before I left that I didn’t want you here. Now that I’m here myself, I’m so glad for every day that I know you’re back in Brooklyn, eating Ma’s food, walking through streets without constantly having to look over your shoulder, and just living. I’m glad you have a bed to sleep in and that, for better or for worse, you know exactly where you’re gonna lay your head down every night and whether or not it’ll have a functional fucking roof._
> 
> _I’m glad you don’t know this smell, Steve. I’m so so glad you don’t know this smell._
> 
> _God knows I’m never gonna send this letter, so chances are if you’re reading it, then I’m not around anymore. Which means I get one last chance to say all this._
> 
> _1\. Pick your battles. I’m not gonna tell you to stop fighting because, shit, I know you. But the world is full of fights. Everywhere. All the time. You’re gonna do so much damn good in this life, I know you are. But you are still just one guy, Steve (even if you’ve got enough stubborn in you to fill up a hundred fellas twice your size.)_
> 
> _2\. When you do fight, you don’t always gotta do it by yourself. I might not be around anymore, but you’ll always be a Barnes, Steve. And someday, somebody else is gonna see you the way I saw you. I know it._
> 
> _3\. Keep making beautiful things. This world needs them, sweetheart. It needs them so much._
> 
> _4\. You never paid much attention in Mr. Lowenstein’s class, but if you had, you’d know that a line has no end. Not really._
> 
> _Live as long as you can as good as you can. Love as much as you can as hard as you can. Keep being the man I know you are. You were always the best of all of us, and there never would’ve been a Bucky Barnes without Steve Rogers._
> 
> _I’ll be putting in a lot of good words for you until you get here. Something tells me you’re not gonna need ‘em._
> 
> _ ,  _
> 
> _ Bucky _

**November 1943  
  
**

The light in the apartment is a dull gray, barely piercing the floral curtains on the window. Steve’s eyes fall open in the afternoon. Or is it evening? The following morning?

What does it matter?

He rolls away from the light.

* * *

Steve’s eyes fall open in the morning. Or is it…

He rolls away from the light.

* * *

Steve’s eyes…

* * *

Steve’s eyes…

* * *

Steve’s eyes fall open. His mouth is a desert and someone is pounding on the walls.

No, not the walls.

“Steve!”

Steve ignores it. If he ignores it long enough, it will go away. If he ignores all of this long enough, if he sleeps enough, then maybe he’ll wake up and find out it was all some horrible nightmare.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you open this door!” A pause. More thuds. “Steve, I can and will pick this lock.”

Wrapping his blankets around him like a cocoon, Steve shuffles to the front door. He doesn’t open it.

“Becca, go home,” he says, having to clear his throat twice before the words actually come out audible.

She answers him in a low voice that conjures up red lips pulled back around white teeth. “Open the fucking door, Steve.”

Steve cringes back from the light outside, blinking several times before he can focus on the figure there, framed like a shadow. For a second, all he can see is brown curls and a chin dimple. A sharp, fresh pain flares in his chest.

Rebecca looks like hell. Her hair has been thrown up into a braided bun that was likely done some days ago, and there are wrinkles all down the front of her dress. If Steve were to draw the circles under her eyes, he would need more charcoal than he has.

Then again… Steve pulls the blanket tighter around himself, half-hiding his face in the diamond pattern he helped his mother sew back when he was five or six. If he wills his imagination hard enough, he can almost smell Bucky, as though the scent of cigarettes and pomade could remain forever between the fibers.

For several seconds, all he and Becca do is stare at each other. Steve watches her bottom lip quiver. He swallows.

“How dare you, Steve,” she says. “How fucking dare you.”

“Guess Esparza told you?”

“Esparza… What the hell are you on about?” Becca closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been into the… to work, Steve. I’m talking about you shutting us out.”

“I killed him.”

Becca’s body jolts like she’s been slapped. And then her face goes hard in a way so painfully familiar that Steve wants to somehow sink into the floor, then into the concrete below, and so on, until he is deep within the earth beneath the city.

“You think this is what he’d want? You over here suffering by yourself. Us suffering without you. As though you aren’t my brother. As though you and Bucky weren’t as good as m—” Becca inhales, her nostrils flaring. “Fuck you, Steve. Fuck you.”

Steve looks down at the floor. Becca has on two different colored shoes.

“I helped come up with the strategy for Azzano. If I’d just stayed out of everything like he wanted, then maybe…”

Becca lets out something like a howl and lunges forward, her fists landing on Steve’s chest. It’s not hard enough to hurt him, especially not with the quilt. But it does startle him, Becca’s fists lashing out one after the other, a barrage. With a quiet, “you bastard,” she stops the fray but continues the momentum of it, forcing Steve to shuffle back into his apartment. She kicks the door shut behind them.

“That’s why I didn’t come by. I don’t deserve to—”

“Shut up. Just shut the hell up!” Becca scrubs at her face. Without a word, she steps around Steve into the kitchen, slipping past the tabletop over the bathtub. It's strewn with things Steve couldn’t be bothered to clean up, from mail to dirty dishes to the jacket he was wearing the day of the funeral. On her tiptoes, she opens the cabinet over the sink and pulls out the whiskey Bucky always kept. It’s almost full, and it probably would’ve stayed that way forever without her intervention. She pops the top and takes a long draw directly from the bottle. Then she takes another, wincing at the burn and slamming the bottle down in one of the few empty spaces she can find.

“I am going to say this one time, and I want you to listen. I want you to listen and think on it until it sticks. If nothing else ever gets through that stubbornly thick skull of yours, Steven Grant, I want it to be this.” Becca takes a few breaths. “James Buchanan Barnes, my brother, your…” She glances at the wall and lowers her voice. “Bucky died because Hydra killed him. Bucky died because there is a war going on that he had to fight in because the world is a place that is, at times, full of misery and bullshit that defies human comprehension. Bucky died loving you and loving us and I do not believe for one second, even if you had been the sole person making the calls about what happened to him…

“If you were the general of the whole US Army or the goddamned president himself, and you sent Bucky on a suicide mission to assassinate Hitler or Schmidt all by his lonesome, he wouldn’t have faulted you when he didn’t come back. Why? Because he knew you. He believed in you, and he knew you would die before you made a decision you didn’t believe in wholeheartedly. That’s why he loved you so much in the first place. No part of him would hate you. No part of him was capable.”

She’s crying again, moving a dirty saucer to sink into one of the rickety chairs. She puts her head in her hands for several moments. Her back shakes, and he thinks that he should do something, but he can't seem to move. When she looks up at him, her eyes are wet and red.

“So I will say again what I said when I got here. Fuck you, Steve. Fuck you for not being there for Ma and me. For Pa and Janie and Ruthie. A person’s memory is kept by the people they become a part of, and nobody holds more of Bucky than you. We need you. Bucky needs you.”

Becca takes another swig of whiskey, then stands up.

“Sunday dinner tomorrow. If you’re not there, I will never speak to you again.” She slams the door behind her on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for sticking with this. Your kudos/comments/bookmarks/subscriptions are sustaining me through these shorter days. 
> 
> Re: the letter - Bucky's line about living in a world of death is inspired by/similar to the line in a real life letter, also to a sweetheart, also never sent. [I'll link to it](https://bestofww2.blogspot.com/2008/12/letter-from-quentin-aanenson.html) in case you want to read it, with a strong warning that it is brutal in its honesty and does not gloss over some of the terrible ways in which real people died.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big, big thank you to my friend Hatice for all the help with the German in this chapter, and there is quite a bit. 
> 
> Another reminder to heed the tags, particularly psychological torture, medical torture, and nazi/fascist ideology. I never go beyond what I feel is necessary to tell the story effectively, so there isn't anything I'd deem excessive, but you know. Just be safe and all that. 
> 
> Also no one has read it otherwise so far, but just in case, I wanna note that any references to sexual contact in this chapter are in Bucky's memory/head only.

> _August 16, 1943_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _I ran into Steve yesterday. He’s been a real spoilsport so blue since you left, so I dragged him over to Ma and Pa’s place for Sunday dinner without letting him have any time to think of a way to get out of it. It seems like every time he’s actually been invited lately, he’s come up with some reason or another not to show. We hadn’t seen him properly since his birthday._
> 
> _Anyway, I think June Bug has gotten a little sweet on him. One of her braids fell out before Ma and I were done with the cooking and he offered to fix it so we wouldn’t have to stop. I’ve never seen her be so still and so fidgety all at once! And her talking faster than an auctioneer about how she’s doing in school and all her marks. You should’ve been there. She spent the whole afternoon having more hair problems than the entire Barnes family has ever had in all of history (which is saying something), and her asking Steve to fix it every time with those big blue puppy dog eyes she always used to get us in trouble._
> 
> _I can’t blame her though. A part of me always wanted to marry Steve growing up. A family trait, I guess._
> 
> _Speaking of marriage, Tommy got his orders, so I guess I’ll be writing even more V-mail soon. If he happens to come your way, keep an eye on him for me. I’ll be doing all I can to help you and him and everyone else from over here. Maybe I’ll rope Steve in too and give him something to do besides mope around Brooklyn._
> 
> _Stay safe and write soon._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Becca_

**November 1943 - May 1944**

_Sehnsüchtig - Longing_

_You’re not supposed to want like this. He’s walking ahead of you and he’s sore because you’re sore. There are bruises on his face and his knuckles are scabbed over. He’s telling you why he did it this time, his hands arcing wildly through the air. You already know why though because you know him. You know him like you know the air in your lungs. You know him like you know to step over the loose floorboard in the dark. Like you know which streets will lead you home the quickest and which ones will lead you home with the best views along the way._

_He did it because it’s what he’ll always do, on and on until the end of time. He did it because it’s who he is, and you want. Oh Christ, do you want._

* * *

At some point, Bucky must have dozed off, slumping over on the seat of the truck. He knows he must have because Steve was there, sitting quietly in the corner of the tenement with his sketchbook in his lap. Bucky can’t decide if it’s kind or cruel of his brain to give him dreams about Steve at a time like this. 

A bump in the road is what wakes him. He glances around the truck. Janosi sits stock still between two Hydra guards. Dr. Zola’s hunched over across from him, wringing his hands in his lap. Bucky never wanted to kill anybody before he came to war, but he can’t help but think of at least three ways he would dispatch that man if he could. 

Whatever Zola did to him, Bucky can still feel it in his veins. Cold today. So fucking cold that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be warm again. 

Another bump, and Bucky watches everyone get jostled around by it, his own body swaying. Janosi swears quietly, one of the guards glancing his way. 

Within the hour, they arrive at a new facility. Zola has Bucky put in another cage in a lab that is more dust than equipment. They put Janosi across the room in a cage of his own. 

“Good to know I won’t die alone,” Janosi says, when Zola and the guards leave them. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, “I’m still here, ain’t I?” 

“What happened to the other guys though?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer that one. 

When Zola comes back, Schmidt is with him and he doesn’t have a face. His goddamned face is red like a Japanese flag, like a Nazi armband, like the blood of a hundred men soaking into a beach somewhere when they should have been at home getting married and eating dinner with their parents and loving their best friend so much it burned. 

“Excellent. You already have a prisoner you can use to get started,” Schmidt says, and Janosi quietly backs into the wall of his cage when Schmidt turns his way. 

“Mein Führer, Hydra’s Red Skull,” Zola says, doing his best to shrink into the abundant shadows—apparently the room doesn’t have proper lighting yet. That or somebody didn’t pay the bill. “The folders I grabbed in our rush out of  Kreischberg are not… My research on the serum is…” 

Schmidt rounds on him, horrible skull face and all. 

“Dr. Zola what are you saying?” 

Zola turns to look at Bucky who glares back. 

“I’m afraid he is all we have.” 

* * *

_Verrostet - Rusted_

_It’s his birthday and you can’t afford the tickets so you climb the fence. You both get rust on your pants, but you find a dime on the ground and split a bag of popcorn._

_They always lose when they play this team and they always play this team around his birthday, but that’s okay because he smiles and cheers when they score, and he stands up and screams at them when they don’t. And watching him do both those things makes your stomach summersault like when you swing too high at the park._

_You never want to stop kicking your legs to swing higher._

* * *

For a few days, it doesn’t feel much different than  Kreischberg. They come and take Janosi in the mornings and return him at night. He tells Bucky they’ve put him back to work, but the rest of the staff is made up of Hydra men instead of other prisoners for now. 

Zola takes blood, so much of it that Bucky is surprised he has any left. In a room on the other side of the glass, Bucky watches him run it under microscopes and through all kinds of machines. He seems increasingly frustrated by what he finds. 

A few days in, when the equipment and better lighting start to arrive, they also bring in a gramophone. They don’t play music though. There’s a stack of records that different guard members change off and on all day. 

“Sprechen sie Deutsch? Do you speak German?” the first record starts off, a monotone male voice repeating phrase after phrase. “Einmal nach Berlin. One ticket to Berlin.” 

The records stay on all hours of the day. 

“Sarge, what the hell are they trying to teach you German for?” Janosi asks when he comes back, digging into his meager rations. 

“Beats the fuck outta me,” Bucky says. In the back of his head, he hears a monotone voice say, [Ich weiß es nicht](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347) _._

* * *

_Siebzehn - Seventeen_

_You turn seventeen (steps to assemble your weapon) and he’s not there because he’s sick, so you go to him after because what is a birthday without him? He feels bad because he couldn’t get you anything, but he hands you a stack of paper full of things that money could never buy, and it’s so much more than you deserve. Beautiful things from the hands of a beautiful thing._

_Later, you whisper the truth because you think he’s asleep, but he isn’t. His hands are cold on the back of your neck when he kisses you._

* * *

“Bleib auf meiner rechten Seite. Stay on my right. Töte den Rotschopf. You kill the redhead. [Gib mir eine Waffe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347). Give me…” 

Bucky lays on the floor of the cage and tries to sleep even as the record plays on and on. Six days now. Six days!

“Schalt es aus!” Bucky screams at the Hydra guard sitting next to the gramophone. He doesn’t even flinch. “[Schalt es aus, du Mistkerl!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347)”

“Jesus, Sarge,” Janosi mutters, half-asleep because Janosi could always sleep through anything, the bastard. “And we thought Jones was good at languages.” 

The following afternoon, Zola talks to him for an hour in German. Bucky repeats his name, rank, and serial number over and over in both languages. The records finally stop, until the next day when they start over again. It’s not German this time though. It’s Russian. 

Two weeks later, it’s French. 

Then Romanian and Japanese and Mandarin and Dutch and… 

“What the hell are you doing this for?” Bucky asks, and it's the most he has ever said to Zola in his life. “You trying to educate me to death? Is this some new experimental torture you’re working on? Because even if this was actually working and I gave up intel, it’d be too old to do any damned good. Here’s your fucking intel. The Americans are trying to win the war. There will be troops fighting your troops. Big fucking surprise there, huh?” 

Zola just smiles at him in that unsettling way of his. 

“Tell me about your ‘Stevie,’ Soldier. The guards say you mutter his name in your sleep.” 

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw clenching. 

“Sergeant James Barnes. 107 th . Drei zwei fünf fünf sieben null drei acht. Sergeant James Barnes. Cent septième. Trois deux cinq cinq sept zéro trois huit.” 

“Guard, please go and get the prisoner from the factory,” Dr. Zola says. He sits in a chair in front of Bucky’s cage, staring at him until the guard drags Janosi in. Bucky’s hands shake. 

“Again. Who is Steve?” Zola asks, and Bucky doesn’t look at Janosi, but he can see him out of the corner of his eye, held tightly with one arm twisted behind his back. 

“Just a guy I knew back home. He didn’t even make it over to the war.” 

Zola holds his hand up. There is a sharp crack and Janosi makes a strangled little noise and then breathes in and out rapidly through his teeth. 

“Christ,” Bucky says. “What the fuck would you even want with Steve? Like I said, he ain’t even over here.” 

“It is not up to you to say what is or is not useful, Soldier.” Zola starts to raise his hand again, and Bucky opens his mouth. 

“My best friend,” he says. “Since we were kids.” 

“How did you meet?” Zola asks, and he begins taking notes, his pen scratching into paper. Bucky looks between him and Janosi, who isn’t saying anything, just breathing really heavily, his eyes wet and glassy. 

It’s not a betrayal. It’s not a betrayal because Steve is back in Brooklyn safe and sound, and if he knew about this he would tell Bucky to spill if it meant saving Janosi. Hell, he would find the nearest telegraph and spill it all himself. 

“I was nine and I saw him getting the shit kicked out of him,” Bucky says. “Three on one didn’t sit right with me.” 

He gives Zola the short version of his entire friendship with Steve from start to finish with some details omitted, finishing with the double date and Steve stopping by his parent’s place for one more goodbye. 

“Good, Soldier.” Zola looks up from his notepad. “Now tell me how long you have loved him.” 

“Excuse me?” Bucky asks, crossing his arms again. “The fuck are you implying?”

“I am not implying anything.” Zola flips through a few pages of notes. “Merely observing.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Put the prisoner on his knees,” Zola says in German. 

This time Bucky does look. Janosi goes down hard. The Hydra guard draws his gun and places it directly against the back of Janosi’s skull. He cocks the hammer, and Bucky swears the sound echoes and echoes and echoes. 

“Answer the question, Soldier.”

“Whatever he’s asking, you don’t gotta tell ‘em nothin, Sarge,” Janosi says. “Been ready for this since Italy. We all have, huh?” 

Bucky’s eyes rocket from Janosi to Zola to the gramophone in the corner. He could say no in so many ways now. His hands shake harder. Finally, Bucky answers in German. 

“I knew it the first time Becca ever said she wanted to marry him, but I think really since we were nine. He was younger and smaller than me, but only in looks. I only ever wanted to be the kind of guy who deserved him.” 

Bucky sinks onto the floor of his cage. To his left, Janosi’s still on his knees. 

“Christ, let him up or at least let him know you’re not going to kill him,” Bucky says, but Zola ignores that, scribbling away. 

He asks question after question after question and by the end, there are hardly any secrets left as far as Steve is concerned. It’s like he has cut Bucky open and laid every inch of him bare. His love. His lust. His heart beating in someone else’s rib cage. 

With inelegant movements, Zola flips through his notebook, studying the pages. He sets his pen down on top. 

“Take the prisoner back to work.” 

Bucky can feel Janosi’s shuddering exhale as though he had breathed it himself.

* * *

_Morgengrauen - Daybreak_

_You find him at the cemetery the morning after her funeral. (Will there be a f—) The first rays of sunlight haven’t even kissed the sky yet so you feel safe wrapping him up in your arms. You hold him until the crying stops._

_Later, he says he’s sorry for how much he needs you. The thing is that of the two of you, you have always needed him more._

* * *

They move Janosi out of the lab. Bucky lets himself believe that he’s still alive because the alternative is too much to think about. Besides, why would they kill him when they know they can use him to get anything out of Bucky their shriveled hearts desire?

He gets confirmation when they take Bucky out of the lab, two guards marching him down the hall and across the manufacturing floor. There are more prisoners now, all of them working to assemble horrible things. 

“Janosi? Any of you know a fella by the name of Joe Janosi?” Bucky asks, raising his voice loud because what does it matter anymore if he pisses Hydra off? “He alive?”

No one answers him, because of course they don’t, but one guy catches Bucky’s eye and jerks his head in the tiniest nod he can manage. Bucky smiles when the guards shove him forward through another door. 

The room is long and empty, several paper targets set up on the opposite end, easily a hundred yards away. 

A dozen guards stand against the walls. Among them, there is a single man with his face visible, a Hydra insignia wrapped around his arm. He is blond and fair-skinned, his eyes a crisp, clear blue like the ocean on those good days during the trip across the Atlantic. When Bucky could look out and pretend he was on a luxury liner. 

“Hello, Soldier,” he greets in German. “I am Major Josef Schneider. Herr Schneider to you.”

“This a firing squad?” Bucky asks, looking around. 

Schneider does not answer. Instead he holds his hand out. A guard places a rifle in it. It's a K98k from the looks of it, though the scope on top looks far from standard issue, even if Bucky has only seen a few resting with their former masters. 

Schneider looks it over, checks that it’s loaded, and then offers it to Bucky. Bucky just stares at it. 

“Take the gun, Soldier.” 

“You’re gonna hand me a rifle? Really?” 

“You shoot any man in this room, we shoot two prisoners. Except your friend. Him, we kill slow.” Schneider smiles, looking more handsome than someone like him has any right to. “Take the gun.” 

Bucky accepts the rifle. It feels like blasphemy to hold it instead of the Springfield that he trained with. That one was left behind somewhere in Azzano though. Or picked up by Hydra grunts. Doesn’t matter anymore, he supposes. 

“Now show us what you can do.” Schneider waves toward the targets set up across the room. 

“Do I win a prize if I hit ‘em all?” Bucky asks, weighing the rifle in his hands. “Tell you what, I hit all the targets, the prisoners get extra rations tonight.” 

Schneider looks at him blankly, then shrugs. 

“First shot’s to get a feel. Every gun’s different.” He raises it and looks through the scope. Sure enough, it's way more advanced than anything he’s ever seen just in magnification alone. He takes aim at the target on the left and fires. The bullet tears through the paper far from the center. 

He turns the bolt handle, the shell falling onto the floor with a clink. Still looking through the scope, he approximates the distance from the center to the actual impact, does a quick calculation. No wind to account for. Not a lot of curvature at this distance. 

The second round hits very nearly dead center. Bucky moves to the next target, a perfect shot this time. Then the next. 

There is one bullet left in the gun when he finishes, so he points the barrel at the middle target, moving his aim to the head instead of center mass. The hole he makes there is perfect, light shining through it from the other side like the universe’s loneliest star. 

“Retrieve the targets,” Schneider says, and two guards take off at a jog while Bucky stands there with an empty rifle held loosely in his hands. 

Three guards hold up three targets upon their return. Schneider looks each one of them over, scrutinizing them. He puts his finger through Bucky’s first shot. 

“Your practice shot?” he asks. 

“Obviously.” 

Schneider hums. 

“Come,” Schneider says, his footsteps clacking on the concrete floor. He heads for a steel door, thick and heavy, and pushes it open. It's dusk outside, the air cold enough to fog in front of Bucky’s mouth. When Bucky glances back, he finds the guards all following along like ducklings. 

The plant sprawls with outbuildings and storage facilities. Schneider leads Bucky through rows of metal buildings, then up a ladder onto the roof of one of them, holding up a hand so the guards don’t follow. Up top, he passes Bucky more rounds for his gun, a cluster of five. Bucky loads them in. 

Schneider looks through his binoculars, surveying the scene on the ground until he finds what he’s looking for. 

“The man with the mustache. Forty-five degrees to your left. Approximately four hundred meters,” Schneider says, and Bucky finds the man in his scope and watches him direct guardsmen to and fro. Schneider gets closer, talking low in his ear. “He is a traitor to the cause. Kill him.” 

Bucky snaps his attention to Schneider. 

“What?” 

“You have your orders, Soldier.” 

“Yeah, only problem with that is I’m a prisoner, pal, not a goddamned German soldier. You got your own snipers.” 

“Kill him and we’ll let you write a letter home. Surely someone will want to hear from you,” Schneider says. “Or don’t. There are plenty of men inside. I’m sure we can find someone to punish.” 

Motherfucker. Motherfucking son of a bitch. 

Bucky’s hands tremble. He inhales and looks through the scope again, his throat feeling sore and too-tight. 

“What did he do?” Bucky asks, as though it’ll make it easier to know exactly how this guy betrayed a bunch of Nazis, but Schneider does not answer. Instead he pulls his radio to his lips. 

“Pick out a prisoner to kill. Wait for my order.” 

Bile rises in Bucky’s throat, burning hot. His eyes burn hotter. He inhales again. Wind 5-10 mph coming from behind him. Distance and curvature. He pictures the paper target in his mind, the first missed shot’s distance from center. With his eye on the scope, he adjusts the position of the rifle. 

The shot echoes across the yard and inside of Bucky’s head, ricocheting off every part of his skull. He does not watch the man fall, but he swears he can hear it even though he’s too far away for that to be possible. 

The world goes quiet for several seconds. Clearly the guards knew this was coming, because no one reacts. Bucky can hear his own breath, his own heartbeat. 

And then… 

“Well done, Soldier.” 

* * *

_Heizstrahler - Furnace_

_His skin is so hot, a furnace burning into your flesh and the fire is in your veins and—_

_His skin is so hot. It’s never been this hot before, and for the first time you’re actually convinced you might lose him. You wipe him down with alcohol, passing the cloth over him again and again. The room smells like a distillery, but he’s alive. Every rise and fall of his lungs is a gift and you are thankful._

_You are thankful for him and[für das Training von Herr Schneider.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347) And his skin is so very very hot when he moves beneath you. _

* * *

There are more syringes, but these ones do not burn Bucky up inside or freeze him to the core. Instead they make the world go fuzzy like the space between being asleep and being awake, when he cannot be sure what is real and what is a dream. 

There are movies now instead of records. At least he thinks there are movies. Are there movies? 

No, he distinctly remembers a waving Hydra flag and saluting Hydra soldiers and THE NINE TENETS in big white letters. In German. The words were in German. The whole film was in German. 

A dream. It had to be a dream because Steve was there, his fingers slotted with Bucky’s, stepping on his feet while they danced through tenets one through three. 

Because Steve was there, moving inside of Bucky for four through six. 

Because Steve was there, reminding Bucky as always that people cannot be trusted to rule themselves. 

Syringes and dreams. How long was he asleep?

* * *

_Neun - Nine_

_You’re nine and the blond boy is on the ground and there are nine punches thrown and there are nine key tenets of the Hydra philosophy and there are one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine_ _punches_ _shots fired and you do not miss._

[ _Die Faust verfehlt nicht._ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347)

* * *

“The first tenet?” Herr Schneider asks, sitting in the corner of Bucky’s cage. No, not the cage. They’re in the big room. There are targets set up. 

Bucky blinks slowly and slurs in German, “Where is Steve?”

Schneider frowns. 

“Steve was a man invented by the Americans to sway you to their side, remember? A trick to capture one of our best, but you are home, Soldier,” Herr Schneider says. “You are remembering.” 

“No, that’s not…” English this time. The world feels like syrup, thick and dripping down, down, down. His Ma’s pancakes. 

“My mother. Pancakes on Sundays. After church.” 

“Get the Soldier some water,” Schneider says. “He has been through an ordeal.” 

“Pancakes.” 

“Your mother was Brigitte Dietrich.” Schneider opens a folder and pulls out a photo of a woman with bright blonde curls. “You have three sisters. Lucie, Heidi, and Johanna.” 

Three sisters. 

“I used to read them stories,” Bucky says. 

“See, you do remember.” Schneider smiles kindly. “You are a good soldier, and a good asset. You remember the first tenet?” 

The guard returns with water that he offers to Schneider who helps Bucky drink it. 

“But Steve…” Bucky swallows. Schneider scowls. 

They take him back to his cage. No, not a cage. It is a bedroom. There is a picture of his family on the wall. There are books on the bedside table. 

“You are not a prisoner,” Schneider says, “but we must lock this now for your protection and ours. Until you are better. Dr. Zola will be by shortly to give you your medicine.” 

Schneider slides the bolt into place. 

* * *

_Freundlich - Friendly_

_He is your best guy and you are theirs and who is he anyway? No one. He never was._

_Your best friend is Herr Schneider[und deine Knarre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347). You are almost ready, your friends say. _

[ _Fast soweit_ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347)

_fast soweit_

_fast soweit…_

* * *

“The first tenet?” 

“People cannot be trusted to rule themselves,” the Soldier says, jogging alongside Herr Schneider. They are in the woods and there are random targets on several trees. It is knives today. Bucky throws one as soon as he answers, the blade burying itself into a small red x painted on a trunk in the distance. 

“Excellent on both counts, Soldier. Tell me the second.” 

“Mankind is like a plant, contaminated by rot that must be cut away.” Another knife strikes true. 

Another. Another. Another… 

“And the last.” Schneider stops jogging, panting slightly where he stands, beads of sweat on his forehead. The Soldier does not pant. He has not broken a sweat. 

“Hydra is the only group with the means and knowledge to save humanity from itself.” 

The last knife sails past the target, instead slicing through a bit of fungus hanging from the branch of a tree. It falls into the leaf litter with a quiet thump. 

“Very good.” Schneider claps the Soldier on the shoulder while a guard collects the fallen knife and returns it to the Soldier’s palm. “Some hand-to-hand before we stop for the day?” 

Schneider does not have his physical strength or speed, but he makes up for it in mental calculations. 

“You must be like water, Soldier,” he says. “Every movement both fluid and relentless. Try again.” 

The Soldier gets extra candy for fighting his way through Schneider and half a dozen guards. 

Later, Dr. Zola stops by to check on him. He has a syringe. A guard follows him in with a film projector, setting it up to play on the Soldier’s wall. 

“A movie as another reward for all your hard work lately,” Zola says. “And something to help you sleep.”

The blond man is there in his dreams, his mouth hot and wet on every inch of the Soldier’s skin. He wakes up (or does he wake at all?) to the image of two men on his wall, writhing and panting together. 

“Heizstrahler,” a voice says, drowning them out. “The world is sick and Hydra is the cleansing fire.” 

The Soldier does not remember the dream or the movie in the morning. In good spirits, he writes a letter home to his mother and his sisters. 

* * *

_Heimkehr - Homecoming_

_All you ever wanted was to go home to- This is home. You made it home._

_Fast soweit, Soldier..._

_Fast soweit…_

_Fast soweit._

* * *

The prisoner seems to know him, gaping at him when he walks through the manufacturing floor with Herr Schneider. The Soldier is in his uniform. It is different than anyone else’s. Knee pads, comfortable black boots with good treads, several knife holsters—some hidden, some not—and a black leather duster with the Hydra insignia embossed onto one sleeve. It is a uniform made for stealth and fighting both. He is neither guard nor officer. 

“Sarge, what the fuck did they do to you?” the prisoner asks, and a guard puts a gun against his temple and cocks it. 

In an instant, the Soldier lunges, pushing the guard to the floor and holding a knife to his throat. The prisoner takes several steps away. 

“Soldat,” Herr Schneider says calmly. “Would you harm your brother? And over a bit of American trash?” 

Buc— The Soldier’s hand quivers. He looks at Herr Schneider’s blue eyes. Slowly, he pulls the knife away from the guard’s throat and slips it back into its holster. 

Herr Schneider nods at him and then looks around the factory floor. 

“What are you all looking at? Back to work!” 

The prisoners scramble. The Soldier follows Herr Schneider to the training room. 

* * *

_Eins - One_

_Two hearts, one b— One move[um Herrn Schneider auf den Boden zu werfen. Ein Angriffsziel. Jeder Schuss ein Treffer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347)._

[ _Red Skull ist mit dir viel zufriedener als mit dem Arzt._ ](Red%20Skull%20is%20more%20pleased%20with%20you%20than%20the%20doctor.)

[Red Skull sagt dass du fast soweit bist.](Red%20Skull%20says%20you%20are%20almost%20ready.)

* * *

The Red Skull shows up at one of his trainings. It is an honor to have the Obersteführer come to see him. 

“So you are to be the Fist of Hydra,” he says, circling the Soldier. He removes his coat, folding it and setting it into the arms of a guard member. He unbuttons and rolls the sleeves of his shirt. “A fight. To see how strong you are.” 

The Red Skull does not hold back in combat. It is not like Herr Schneider, who has to fight the Soldier with his mind because he cannot match him in strength. The Red Skull is strong too. When he hits, the Soldier can feel it long after. They go around and around. There is no clear winner, though the Soldier does cede. 

“You have done well Major Schneider,” the Red Skull says. He is actually short of breath. “Is Die Faust ready for his first mission?” He looks at the Soldier. 

“Heil Hydra,” the Soldier says. 

They bring a prisoner through the door. The one who spoke to him a few weeks ago. There is tape over his mouth now. 

What was it he had said? 

The Red Skull places his personal pistol in the Soldier’s hand.

“Kill him.” 

* * *

_Entführt - Taken_

[ _Du gibst dem Gefangenen einen Kopfschuss. Red Skull lächelt zufrieden._ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/chapters/67545347)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if anyone even noticed this detail, but Nazi Germany had different ranks depending on if you were in the Wermacht or the SS. I'm keeping with the theme of the MCU where Hydra kind of has their tentacles in everything, so I think they've got people from/inside both those groups. Schneider's title of Major is pretty much equivalent to a Major in the US military. Obersturmbannführer Lohmer (the guy who nearly killed Bucky) would be the approximate rank of a Lieutenant Colonel.
> 
> As for Schneider having Bucky call him Herr instead of Major? I'll let you speculate on that one.


	7. Seven

> _March 10, 1944_
> 
> _Mother, Father, Lucie, Heidi and Johanna, _
> 
> _ Dr. Zola and Herr Schneider say that I am almost free of what the Americans did to me. I am sorry for all these months that you must have been terribly worried. _
> 
> _ Now that I am back on my feet, they have me focusing on important training. I am so different than I was when you knew me that I wonder if you would all even recognize me. I cannot talk about it here, but know that we have been making plans, and I will have so many important jobs to do. I miss you all, but the world is full of fights and we must all do our part.  _
> 
> _ Even with all the work to be done, I would give a great deal for some of Mother’s beef stew and potato pancakes. They are feeding me well and often here, but nothing ever beats Mutti’s cooking.  _
> 
> _ Lucie, Heidi, and Johanna, I miss reading you to sleep. Know that while the Americans took a lot from me, they couldn’t take your laughter. I can remember so clearly the way it tinkled like church bells, and I carry it with me until the day the work is done.  _
> 
> _ Please take care of each other always.  and look in on _
> 
> _ With love _
> 
> _ Your brother, your son _

**May - June 1944**

Like it had after Steve lost his mother, life goes on.

The hole in his heart is still a chasm, but he has gotten better at traversing it, only falling into it once a day instead of every waking moment.

At least that’s what he tells himself. Maybe the truth is that the war keeps going with little respect for its dead, and if Bucky’s death is going to mean anything, then they have to win it. Which means Steve has to get up and drag himself into the SSR to do his part, no matter how much he wishes he could lay down and give up, or that he could go back to June of last year and tangle himself around Bucky and never let him go. 

Some nights, the chasm opens up and swallows him whole, rewriting history into terrible dreams.

They can hear the screams at Ebbets Field before they even sneak in. It's Steve’s birthday, which means they're playing the Phillies. The Dodgers will lose. It feels like they always lose against the Phillies, but that’s okay. Steve’s just happy to be there with Bucky by his side, both of them scouting around for empty seats.

Everything is great until the girl shows up. Steve’s used to girls flirting with Bucky, but this one isn't flirting with Bucky. She’s flirting with Steve, and Bucky’s clearly not used to not being the center of attention. Or, that’s what Steve had thought anyway when they had it out later on the steps of Bucky’s building.

He can’t remember that fight in the dream, his brain picking and choosing which parts to recycle. The argument doesn’t make it in, nor does the shouting from windows and fire escapes for both of them to pipe down.

In the morning, Steve will remember all of that, as well as Bucky’s birthday eight months later, a confession whispered next to Steve’s sickbed.

“ _A fella’s not supposed to feel this way about his best friend, but Christ Steve, I can’t stop it.”_

He will touch his lips and remember for the millionth time that Bucky was his first and (so far) last kiss.

But for the time being, the dream goes on. The Dodgers have gotten a hit and the crowd is screaming and the girl with the blonde curls is pulling on Steve’s sleeve and jumping excitedly when Bucky makes a sour remark about how they’re still down by two. That’s when Steve turns to him, sliding back into his seat.

“ _I know why you’re acting like this,”_ Steve says. And then he grabs Bucky by the lapels and pulls him in for a kiss. The girl is gone by the time they break apart, twined around each other. Ebbets is empty, though Steve can still hear the cheers, distant like a radio in someone else’s apartment. “ _It was always gonna be you, Buck_.”

Bucky sits next to him in his Army uniform, his hat cocked to the side.

“ _I promise I’ll come home_ ,” Bucky says, even while the bombs begin to fall and shake the stadium apart. Steve screams Bucky’s name, but Bucky’s hand slips out of Steve’s while rocks and debris pile up between them like an ocean, the tide carrying Bucky away until there is nothing left but dust.

Steve wakes up tangled in his sheets, kicking and tearing at them until he can fling them on the floor. He pants up at the ceiling in the dark, his heavy breaths giving way to sobs that shake his body worse than any chill.

With a pathetic keening noise, he turns onto his side and draws his knees in close. He stays like that for untold minutes or hours, until the indigo light of early dawn starts to seep into the room. Somehow, he manages to drag himself to the kitchen to wash the salt off his face.

He dresses for work and leaves early, taking the long way to walk past Ebbets.

The fact that it’s still standing in a world where Bucky Barnes isn’t just doesn’t seem right.

* * *

The big one is coming. The SSR is only a fraction of its planning, but it’s been whispered about and openly discussed so many times that it stopped feeling like an actual eventuality a long time ago. Like the poor men in Steve’s tenement who talk about hitting it big in the stock market. A dream that would never morph into a reality.

Unlike the stock market though, this one is happening. Soon.

“What you’ve got in front of you is extremely classified,” Vera Esparza says, standing at the head of the table. She must’ve had a meeting with the brass earlier this morning, because her olive green uniform is so starched that Steve thinks it would probably stand on its own. Her dark hair is braided and pinned up at the back of her head, not a single hair out of place except for where she’d unpinned her cover at the start of the meeting and thrown it on the tabletop.

She leans over to get closer to them, the rolls of her round belly becoming more prominent. Her honey-brown eyes lock on every single member of the strategic team in turn. “I cannot express how important it is that not a word of what we discuss today leaves this room. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Captain,” Michael Rybarczyk says. He’s another civilian like Steve, one of three on the team of ten. Steve hates him. Or really he hates to look at him, with his dark curls and blue-gray eyes. He looks nothing like Bucky, not really, but the walls of the chasm in Steve’s chest still buckle at the sight of him.

Steve focuses on Esparza instead. She walks to the wall, to a large map of Europe behind clear glass that they’ve been marking up since before Steve was even around. She uses a grease pencil to circle Normandy in red.

“Today, we help plan the invasion and liberation of France.”

* * *

It’s been two weeks, and the map on the wall is covered in arrows and circles and Xs. The table is an organized chaos of plans and intel, some of that intel from outside, some brought in by Becca or one of the others on the decryption team.

“How about Insigny-sur-Mer?” Steve squints at the map, probably completely butchering the pronunciation. He’s got a headache throbbing at his temples, a dull ache that barely registers. “We could—”

“Use Window,” Esparza says, stepping up behind him. This is what they call it when pilots release bundles of aluminum foil that confuse radar operators.

“Here.” Sergeant Florence Jones uses the end of a fountain pen to point at the map. “Boulogne-sur-Mer.”

Steve can’t be sure seeing as he doesn’t speak French, but he’s almost certain her pronunciation is perfect. He cocks an eyebrow at her.

“My brother studied French in college,” she says, leaning in close to look at the map. “Needed a conversation partner over the breaks.”

Steve smiles and nods, pressing a palm to his forehead. He’s shaking, his whole body weak. But what else is new? Buck up and press forward.

“He over there?” Steve asks.

“He was. Honorable discharge.” She picks up a few photos from the table, holding two up side-by-side and staring down at them. “He works down the hall now.”

“Bet you’re glad to have him home.” Steve’s hands tremble when she goes to hand him a paper.

“I am. Are you okay?”

A small wave of nausea ripples through Steve’s belly. He swallows.

“Yeah, I just need—” Just need what? He sinks into a chair and closes his eyes. The memory comes easy, Bucky’s calloused hands working open the wrapper on a roll of Reed’s butterscotch. Always in his pockets. Always for Steve. Steve puts his head in his hands. Someone, maybe Jones or Esparza or even fucking Rybarcyzk puts their hand gently on his shoulder.

“Take thirty for lunch, everyone,” Esparza says. “Nothing leaves the room except you.”

Steve opens his eyes to watch everyone file out. Jones presses a little candy disc into his palm. A Reed’s—not butterscotch, but cinnamon.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, when only he and Esparza remain, Steve’s mouth full of spice and sugar, the nausea already starting to subside.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rogers,” she says. “It’s not like you asked for it.”

Steve nods weakly.

“Do you need me to wait for you?” she asks, her round face soft. The look is not pity or scorn, just the sort of kindness Steve associates with his mother or Ma Winnie or even Bucky. The candy clicks against Steve’s teeth.

“No, I think I’ll be okay. Save me a pastrami?”

“Will do.”

On the way home from work, Steve buys a roll of butterscotch candy and tucks it into his pocket.

* * *

Sometimes, when he can smell Winnie’s cooking from the kitchen and George’s cigar from the fire escape, when he has Janie and Ruthie trying their best to put his short blond hair into ribbons, when he can see Becca perched on the sofa with a book; he can almost forget that Bucky is gone.

It's as though Bucky’s just in the other room, straightening up his pomade for the 80th time or getting Steve some little gift he’d stashed at his folks’ so Steve wouldn’t know about it. Some part of his heart expects to look up at any second and see Bucky walking down the hall, his face split into a Hollywood smile.

“Done!” Ruthie says cheerfully, pulling Steve out of his thoughts. She has an old hand mirror of Winnie’s that cracked at the corner and thus made its way into the realm of ‘things the kids are allowed to play with now.’ She holds it up. Steve can’t help the laugh, his hair spiked up in uneven clumps wherever they could get enough of it together.

“I think you two have found your calling,” Steve says.

“You look beautiful,” Janie says, smiling wide enough to show two missing teeth. “Handsome Steve.”

“Handsome Steve,” Ruthie agrees, and the two of them set off, repeating it over and over in a singsong voice while they skip circles around the living room. Both of them look like miniature versions of Winnie—thin with dark curls and round, pink cheeks.

“What do you think, Becca?” Steve asks, catching her watching it all over the top of her book—a sci-fi pulp novel featuring a pretty blonde woman being carted off by a large yellow robot.

“The latest trend waiting to happen,” she says, turning a page. “Everybody in Brooklyn will be doing it like that by tomorrow.”

Steve winks at her.

He leaves the little ribbons in through dinner and through reading Ruthie and Janie a story about princesses and snow.

“Steve, darling, are you staying with us tonight?” Winnie asks when he tiptoes out of their room and gently shuts the door, finally pulling the bows out of his hair. She stands at the end of the hallway like she’s been waiting for him. “I can make the sofa up, or you can sleep in—”

“Don’t,” Steve says softly. “Ma, please.”

Winnie quiets, looking down at the floor, and guilt tears through Steve’s gut. He has his arms snaked around her in an instant, his nose full of the scent of rosewater. Winnie’s small, broken sob does him in. By the time they're done crying, Steve can’t even fathom walking the few blocks back to his own apartment.

He spends the night on the sofa. In the morning, Winnie sends him off with a kiss and a dish full of leftovers.

* * *

Sunday, June 4th is not the first Sunday Steve has had to work. The war doesn’t stop for the Lord’s day or for any other god’s day. The war doesn’t stop for anything, sacred or otherwise.

Sunday, June 4th is, however, the first time Steve has been at work at midnight. Like everyone else, he’s been there since 8 p.m. on Saturday. Their number one duty at this point? Waiting. They might or might not be called on for a last-minute strategic move. It's unlikely that it would come to them instead of to leadership in the field, but they have to be there anyway, if for nothing else than to watch the dominoes they helped set as they (hopefully) topple one by one.

Conversation happens in stops and starts. Steve doodles on scrap sheets of paper just to have something to do, Esparza wrings her cover in her hands, Jones reviews the plans yet again, and Rybarcyzk sits with his eyes closed and his hands clasped. The other team members too all handle the waiting in their own ways.

The wire comes in close to two, a Japanese American man from the communications team dropping it off.

“Called off,” Esparza says. “Unable to launch due to weather.”

“Until when?” Steve asks. They all knew the plans, the overwhelming amount of factors that went into them—time of day, tides, the phase of the goddamned moon. If not soon, then…

“Unclear.” Esparza folds up the message and takes a deep breath, pulling her copy of the invasion plans toward her. She’s not the only one. Steve and almost all of the others are going through them, undoubtedly looking for the same page—a calendar of optimal dates.

“June 18,” Jones says.

“Hell of a long time to keep the Germans from figuring it all out.” Steve frowns. Across from him, Esparza keeps staring at her paper, her brow creased. The room falls quiet again. Steve looks down at his watch and watches it tick.

“You’re all dismissed,” Esparza says. “Feel free to make use of SSR transport given the late hour. If anything changes, I’ll call.”

Steve crawls into bed at around three and gets woken by a pounding on his door around ten.

“Phone for you, Rogers!”

* * *

Sunday, June 4th is not the first Sunday Steve has had to work, but it's the first time he’s ever been to work twice in the same day.

“The weather’s clear. They’re landing at 06:30,” Esparza says when all ten of them have found their seats around the table. This is it then. “Given last night, I brought some books. You’re all more than welcome.”

In the center of the table is a stack of classics and a few of the pulps like Becca and B— like Becca likes to read. Steve reaches for one. _The Giantess of the Blue Lagoon_ cover shows a large redheaded woman in a red dress, a human man half her size standing next to her with his mouth agape. Steve opens it and tries to read. He is through three whole pages before he realizes that he hasn’t retained a word of it. He closes the book and rests his hands on the cover.

He isn't the only one, it seems.

“Well,” Esparza says, back to wringing her hat in her hands. “So much for that.”

It's a long night and an even longer day. At some point, Esparza has cots brought in. Steve doesn't sleep so much as he occasionally passes out, then wakes up with a jolt of adrenaline. He gets the sense that it's the same for most of the others. They eat breakfast together. Then lunch. Then dinner.

It's nearly midnight when Steve rouses to Esparza’s voice.

“Moreno. Jones. Rogers.” Steve snaps awake, grateful for the interruption of what was likely another nightmare. “Everyone with me?”

A murmur. Esparza opens the telegram that must have come while Steve was out.

“Some objectives not met due to heavy counterattacks and scattered landings at Utah.” Esparza takes a breath, and she is possibly the only person in the room who’s currently breathing. Everyone is rapt, silent, waiting. They care about all the beachheads of course, but it's hard not to be more worried about Utah and Omaha and their own boys.

“Rough seas and high tide at Omaha,” Esparza reads. “Heavy fire sustained. Beachhead not secure.”

Steve puts his head in his hands. He’s not the only one.

“Forces separated at Utah. Still regrouping,” Esparza says. “Significant advances made at Juno.”

Juno. That would be the Canadians.

“British have established large beachheads at Gold and Sword.” Esparza places the telegram on the table and lets them all process the information.

The problem is that it's not enough information. Not enough by half. Steve feels ready to crawl out of his own skin with just how little they get. What objectives remain? Is there anything they can do here stateside to help? Any intel they can pore over to give even a few men a better fighting chance, to make sure their sweethearts waiting back at home don’t get one of those fateful telegrams?

“What now?” Jones asks. Her uniform is crumpled and askew, a crease running down her dark cheek.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Esparza steps out of the room, leaving them all behind.

“How bad do you think our boys got it?” Rybarcyzk asks from the cot next to Steve’s. His eyes are red, his tie hanging loose around his neck.

No one answers that question.

It's nearly half an hour before Esparza comes back, a few papers held in her hand.

“Strategy is currently being handled on the ground and at the base of operations in England. Given the magnitude of this operation, no one is sure when this will change. It could be later tonight. It could be in a few days.” Esparza smooths the front of her uniform with her hands and stifles a yawn. “Ideally, I would like some of you to go home and get some real rest while some of you remain behind. That way we’re here if and when they need us, and we’re staying sharp.”

“Who stays and who goes?” Steve asks.

“I’ll stay,” Esparza says. “Jones, you go. You’ll take command when I’m not here. Rogers, Azubuike, Ricci, and Hardy, go on home. Back at 1100.”

Steve nods and stands up, shrugging on his jacket. It's almost two by the time the SSR car drops him off outside of his building.

He dreams of Coney Island, of him and Bucky kissing and rutting against one of the pier’s great big pillars.

It's a good dream until the bombs start to fall.

* * *

It goes on for days. On paper, they watch the Allies claw their way through France. Sometimes, they advise. Sometimes, they switch focus to the Pacific or to another part of the European Theater entirely.

On the 12th of June, the Japanese American man from the communications team practically sprints in. Steve knows his name now—Jim Morita. Another discharged former soldier who found his way back into the fight.

“They’ve connected all the beachheads and took out a Hydra stronghold in Périers-sur-le-Dan.” Morita seems thrilled about all this information, but especially the latter.

“Not a fan of Hydra, huh?” Steve asks, his tone coming out a lot more bitter than he had meant it to—not that he isn’t precisely that bitter, more so even, but he meant to reign it in.

Morita locks eyes on him.

“Every last one of those sons of bitches can burn,” Morita says, glancing at Esparza after he says it. “Sorry, Captain.”

“If you ask me, ‘sons of bitches’ isn’t harsh enough,” Esparza says. “Thank you for the update, Sergeant.”

Morita nods at her, then gives Steve a tiny jerk of his head before making his exit.

* * *

The 14th of June is quiet. Despite the war and the fight for France, there are still days where nothing much happens on their end. Steve leaves the SSR at a normal time and makes his way home. There is a new _Mysterious Traveler_ on the radio tonight. Maybe he’ll listen to it.

He’s patting his pockets for his key when he makes it up the stairs, so focused on the task that he almost trips over Becca. She sits on the stoop next to his door, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, her makeup all down her face and her uniform in disarray—jacket open, shirt untucked. There’s a paper next to her hand, crumpled up like she’d been giving it a death grip before she finally let it go. Carefully, Steve picks it up and straightens it out.

_The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your husband… killed in action…_

“Becca,” Steve says softly, reaching down to grab her under the elbow. He can’t lift her, but she gets to her feet and lets him guide her into the apartment and onto the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, and she shakes her head, her bottom lip wobbling.

“How?” she asks, her voice a hoarse and uneven thing. “How am I supposed to do this?” She cracks open then, her already red eyes letting loose more tears, her whole body shaking with them. Steve lands next to her, lets her fall into his arms and cry and cry and cry, rubbing her back in soft circles.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, because he hasn’t figured it out yet all these months later. Becca sniffles in response, her arms tight around him, gripping him like he’s a buoy and that if she lets go, she might sink right to the bottom. “Together, I guess.”

Another singular sob.

“Have you eaten?” Steve asks.

“I don’t want to.”

“Try? For me?” Steve slowly pulls out of her embrace and eases her arms out from around him. He has food from Winnie (always) but he finds a tin of saltines and that seems like a better place to start. He puts a few on a plate and fills a big glass with water. “Please, Becca.”

The look she gives him—for a second, he’s glad Bucky will never have to see her like this. And then he flinches at that thought and presses the water glass against her palm. She takes it and manages a sip, then another, before gulping down the whole glass. She grabs a cracker next, nibbling on it slowly while she falls over onto the cushions. Steve puts the rest of them on the side table within reach.

“I need to tell Ma and Pa,” she says softly. “God, Janie and Ruthie loved Tommy so much, and now they’ve lost—”

“Shh. I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do anything right now except rest.” Kneeling next to her, Steve gently undoes the buckles on her uniform heels, pulling them off her feet and lining them up on the floor.

“I’ll get you a pillow.” And he does, draping a blanket over her too, that she pulls tight up to her chin, still working on that cracker. A wave of nausea—Steve hasn’t eaten either. He pushes through it long enough to refill her water glass, then eats cold leftovers over the sink.

Becca’s asleep by the time he calls Winnie. It’s early—only 8 p.m. or so. But Steve wants to leave her in peace, so he takes his sketchbook and heads to bed, propping it up on his knees.

On the page, he draws Becca, not the woman, but the little girl he and Bucky often had to drag along on their adventures. How he had hated her sometimes, always in the way when he wanted Bucky all to himself.

Steve sketches in that little girl’s smile last, missing tooth and all.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of Bucky teaching Becca the Jitterbug right in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, the two of them going round and round until they’re laughing too hard to continue.

Mercifully, there are no bombs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The technique of using Window, also known as chaff, was a real tactic used by both sides in the war. This technique basically produced false blips on radar that could be misinterpreted as enemy aircraft. The allies employed a lot of deceptive techniques in an attempt to confuse the Germans. Using fleets of small boats + window/chaff to simulate invasion forces at other points on the coast was one of them. 
> 
> Versions of chaff are still used today, though they’ve been modified as doppler radar made the original version less effective. 
> 
> The invasion of Normandy WAS delayed due to bad weather in real life, which was a pretty big deal because the ideal combination of factors (that really did include the tides and moon phases) only came around occasionally. That said, the meeting that resulted in the date of the invasion being moved from the 5th to the 6th (European time zones) took place on the 4th, so theoretically, the team would’ve already known about it by the 4th in the U.S. Maybe the SSR got the memo late since they weren't really included at that point. Maybe things happened differently in this alternative universe. Who's to say? 
> 
> As far as what info the SSR would've gotten at the end of D-Day? I have no idea since the SSR didn't exist and since a good deal of the declassified documents related to D-Day are sitting in the national archives somewhere well out of my reach, especially this year.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Vaguely spoilery content warning for this chapter) - Hitler makes an appearance here if you need to know that going in. I *do not* go into any details about any of the atrocities he was responsible for.

> _March 10, 1944_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _I went to your grave for the first time since the funeral. I think I was there all of five minutes. Maybe it’s a horrible thing to think, but sometimes I wonder what the point of an empty grave even is. I think it’s meant to be a place we can go and remember. But there are plenty of places I can go to remember you._
> 
> _I could sit on your side of the kitchen table and put my feet up how you always did because Ma Winnie wasn’t around to scold you about it. I could go to Prospect Park or Coney Island. I could go see a picture and sit in the fifth row back, twelve seats over, where you swore it was perfect. I could read your books. Listen to your favorite radio shows. I could go over and see your folks and your sisters._
> 
> _I did that today. Visiting your family. Ma Winnie made those molasses cookies you always loved and we all shared a favorite memory about you._
> 
> _I don’t know why I’m writing you things you won’t read. I guess the point is that there are a lot of places better than a graveyard you aren’t even in._
> 
> _I wonder too, sometimes, if I knew where to actually find you if it would make it easier that you’re gone. Maybe I could finally say a good-bye that would stick._
> 
> _Somehow, I don’t think so._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Steve_

**July 1944 - August 1945**

The little church in Lyon is not locked. The Fist of Hydra lets himself in quietly, walking down the center aisle. There is a familiarity in the pews and stained glass, something that pokes at his memories. He must have attended church with his family and… and…

And no one.

The back office door is closed, but noise flows out of it. A radio broadcast or record. In French, a voice explains the rites of a ceremony. Candles. Purification. The soldier tries the door knob, pleased when it turns easily in his fist.

The man inside is surprised to see him, taking in his face and the uniform Herr Schneider gave him for this assignment—a plain drab jacket and pants with suspenders, plus a little flat cap.

“Are you lost, young man?” the target asks in French.

“Yes, I was looking for—”

The man screams when the soldier brings a knife down on his hand, nailing it to his desk. No matter. The soldier probably screamed too when people like the target tortured him and stole his mother’s face. A traitor’s chickens always come home to roost.

“The book,” the soldier says.

The target is sweating and whimpering. “What book?” Another scream when the soldier twists the knife.

“The tesseract.” The soldier pulls out another knife. “Where?”

The target does not answer, but his eyes flit towards a shelf against the wall. There are many books stashed between candles, gold incense burners, and a femur encased in glass. The soldier’s eyes scan them.

“Which one?”

The target responds with silence. The soldier uses his other knife.

“Brown.” The target sweats and cries. “The brown one. B-bottom.”

From the lowest shelf, the soldier pulls out a text bound in brown leather. It is old and brittle, the spine cracking when he opens it. Inside, the ink has faded, but there are several drawings of a cube. Mathematical equations. Words written in letters the soldier cannot read.

The soldier turns back toward the target.

“I didn’t see you,” the target says, shutting his eyes so tightly that the bridge of his nose wrinkles and goes white. “You were never here. I will not tell any—”

It is a quick, clean kill. More than the target who steals from Hydra probably deserves.

With the book tucked into his jacket, the soldier slips quietly out the back door and into the night.

* * *

Gruppenführer Hoffmann looks exactly like the photo Herr Schneider has in his breast pocket. The soldier watches Hoffmann through the sight of his rifle where he laughs and drinks with other officers. The soldier feels bad for them, these men who share Hoffmann’s table. They do not know that they sit with a traitor to the cause. Yet.

“What seems to be the trouble, Soldier?” Herr Schneider asks. The soldier glances at him where he lounges against the wall of their hiding place, an unlit cigarette tucked between his lips.

“Obstacles,” the soldier says, a dark mass that is one of Hoffmann’s companions yet again bobbing side-to-side in the circle of his scope, brunet hair blocking the soldier’s shot. Herr Schneider steps away from the wall and crouches next to the soldier, taking over the scope to look at the men. After exactly forty-nine seconds, Schneider hums and relinquishes the gun back to the soldier.

“Oberstegruppenführer Weber,” Schneider says. “Hoffmann means to use him to prevent Project Valkyrie. Do you know what that is?”

The soldier has been told a thousand times. This is why he took… took…

What did he take?

He shakes his head, a motion so slight that Schneider likely doesn’t even see it.

“Project Valkyrie will allow Hydra to complete its mission,” the soldier says. “It is the most important project Hydra has ever undertaken. It must proceed at any cost.”

“Very good.” Schneider finally lights the cigarette, turning away from the window and curling his hands around the flame to hide it. He keeps close to the wall while he puffs, ensuring the red glow of the cigarette does not give away their position. The soldier stays focused on his mission, even while the smell of smoke curls in his nose. He licks his lips.

“Do you know what’s funny, Soldier?” Schneider exhales a cloud. The soldier’s fingers twitch. “Oberstegruppenführer Weber was to be your next assignment.”

There is a brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of Schneider working on his cigarette. The soldier processes his words.

“Another traitor?” the soldier asks.

“The worst kind,” Schneider says, putting his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe. “This is God smiling upon our mission, putting Weber in our path so that we do not have to put our best soldier in harm’s way more than necessary.”

The soldier watches, his finger poised over the trigger, waiting for the order that he knows is coming.

“Kill them both,” Schneider rasps.

The soldier waits seven more seconds, for Weber to fall into the perfect position so that he only needs to fire one shot. Two men, one bullet.

Distance, curvature, wind, windows.

The soldier pulls the trigger and watches two heads fall into their dinner. He catches a glimpse of red wine spilling across a white tablecloth before he pulls away from his scope and starts to quickly pack up his rifle.

Herr Schneider claps him on his shoulder and grins. “My dear Soldier, you may very well be Hydra’s greatest asset.”

“Thank you, Herr Schneider.”

If anyone sees two men slide into a car waiting in the alley, they do not tell a soul.

* * *

The soldier trains. The soldier kills. Time blurs, and his memories blur with it. How many shots has he made? There are scratches on his rifle. There is wear and tear on its case. There is a fleck of blood on one of his pistols, but he does not know why.

Valkyrie. He is supposed to know what Valkyrie is.

“I do not remember,” he admits, looking down at his feet.

“The Americans did a number on you, of course.” Herr Schneider nods at one of the many targets set up before them. The soldier throws a knife that hits center mass. “Project Valkyrie will allow Hydra to complete its mission. It is the most important project Hydra has ever undertaken. It must proceed at any cost.”

The words click into place like a gun sliding into a holster. Yes, he knew that.

“I understand,” the soldier says.

“Good. We have somewhere to be very soon.”

Distance. Curvature. Wind.

Another traitor gone.

The soldier does not remember her by morning.

* * *

The mission uniform is like the ones some of the Hydra men wear, the ones who pretend their loyalties lie elsewhere even while they are working to advance Hydra’s worthy causes. It is also a uniform worn by so many traitors. This must be why the soldier has to will away a flinch when he catches a reflection of himself and sees the red-white-black band around his bicep.

It is necessary if he wants to gain access to the bunker. This must be done. He can hear Herr Schneider’s words echoing in his head.

“ _This is an official breaking, Soldier. A parting of the ways. It is well past time that we stopped indulging those who do not see our vision._ ”

He can see Red Skull in his mind, whispering into Herr Schneider’s ear and smiling at the soldier. It must be important if the Obersteführer is personally involved. 

The soldier pretends to adjust his uniform to avoid the gaze of another man in a uniform of his own. He has been taught ways of evading detection during an infiltration. The first step is to act as though he belongs. 

The next is distraction. The soldier does not need much help in this. He does not know much of the war beyond that it is merely a playing field for Hydra’s larger goals, but whatever has been happening, it has the soldiers in the bunker distracted enough. He assumes a walk that seems as hurried and purposeful as everyone else’s. No one stops him. 

He finds his targets in the study making preparations to run. There is talk of places without extradition, of carrying only what will fit on their bodies and only if it will not identify them. 

“We will wait for nightfall,” the man says. 

They have not noticed the soldier yet, their heads bent together. The soldier feels his jaw clench at the idea of them getting away with it, that this goddamned evil son of a—

The soldier blinks, then settles. Traitors to Hydra do not get to live. They finally notice him when he shuts the door. 

“Who the hell are—” The soldier hits him hard at the base of his skull, his hand already over the woman’s mouth to muffle her scream. 

He has instructions playing over and over in his head. 

_“It is important for Hydra’s plans that this look like a self-made end. Do you understand?”_

He stares down at the man, at his dark hair and almost-square mustache. For a moment, he entertains the idea of making it hurt, of drawing it out, of making him pay for everything that he—

The soldier blinks again. He has his orders. He must follow them so that Hydra can make the world a better place. The two traitors die either way. The how does not matter. 

A pill. A gunshot. 

He jogs up the stairs and out through the garden long before anyone even realizes the man and his new wife are dead. 

* * *

The war ends on one front. The Americans and their friends think they are the victors. 

“It is we who have truly won.” The Red Skull stands before them all. “It is we who will rise from the rubble of this war.” 

The war ends completely. The Americans and their friends still think they are the victors. 

“It is time for Hydra to move into the next phase of its mission.” The Red Skull stands before them all. “Like a phoenix, we will rise from the ashes of this war.” Something twists in the soldier’s gut, a sinking feeling like this is all familiar. Has he seen Red Skull speak before? 

Of course he has. He is Hydra’s greatest asset and Red Skull is the Obersteführer. The soldier clenches his fist by his side. What has Red Skull said in his speeches? 

_People cannot be trusted to rule themselves._

_Mankind is like a plant, contaminated by rot that must be cut away._

_Some lives must be sacrificed for the greater good._

The soldier inhales and exhales. His body calms. 

“It is exciting, is it not?” Herr Schneider whispers. “To know we will succeed. To know you will be such a big part of it.” 

“Yes, Herr Schneider.” 

“If something stood in our way, what would you do, Soldier?” 

The soldier flexes the tension out of his fingers and thinks of the answer that will most please Schneider, the answer that would please the Red Skull if he heard it. 

“To call something an obstacle is to call something surmountable. Obstacles can always be removed.” 

Another twist of his gut. A flash of a black and white film that he does not remember watching. He hates what the Americans have done to his mind, hates the way his thoughts are like soap bubbles floating through the air—each one singular and disconnected. 

_Obstacles can always be removed_ …

“There are no obstacles strong enough to stop Hydra’s sacred mission,” the soldier says. 

Herr Schneider smiles and squeezes his shoulder. 

“You have a new mission,” Schneider says. “One last obstacle to be surmounted. And then perhaps it is time for you to see your family again.” 

* * *

The soldier steps aboard the shipping vessel, his uniform a plain drab jacket and pants with suspenders, plus a little flat cap. The outfit feels familiar. He probably wore things like this before he joined Hydra. He probably wore things like this when he was whole and unmarred by evil men trying to steal him from his true purpose. 

“You there!” someone says. “What’s your name?” 

English. The soldier takes him in—a large man with a red mustache. He reminds the soldier of somebody he cannot place. 

The soldier blinks several times and falls into the training he and Herr Schneider have been working on for the past week and a half. He is ready for this. He is skilled at infiltration. No one even knows that he killed… that he… 

“Milo,” the soldier answers. 

“Well, I hope you’ve got your sea legs, Milo. It’s a hell of a long way to New York.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An occult leader really did get assassinated during WWII, specifically by French militia who were loyal to the Nazis. 
> 
> The timelines are different and this chapter is more of an inspired-by than a match to reality. But his name was Constant Chevillon and I couldn’t really find an explanation as to WHY he was murdered (because all the source docs I found are all in French) and I am very [eyes emoji] about it. 
> 
> If any of you speak/read French and want to see if any of the source docs online mention why he was assassinated, please feel free to tell me if you find anything bc seriously. a;sdkfj
> 
> Update if anyone cares: It looks like the Vichy government forbid occult societies like the freemasons and other occult societies. Chevillon was part of a fair few, and he continued to hold freemason reunions despite this. While it's not 100% clear, it looks like this is what ultimately led to his arrest and death. Thanks to Bookbee/epicstuckyficrecs for looking into this and relaying the info/speculating with me.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all take a breath, huh?

> _[Undated, received on July 3, 1944]_
> 
> _Steve,_
> 
> _Please ignore that this is on the back of a receipt, because I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be home. Ma sent me by to invite you over for supper tomorrow. I’m sure you can guess why._
> 
> _See you then!_
> 
> _-Becca_

**August 1945 - September 1945**

The war ends. It ends nasty, and it's only the knowledge that Steve didn’t even touch the decisions involved that keeps the guilt from eating him alive. He quits the SSR anyway. It isn’t like they need him anymore. It isn’t like he needs them either. He has months of savings and a “best friend” who listed him as his next of kin.

“You’re being awful quiet, Steve,” Becca says. They’re enjoying one of the last breaths of summer, sharing a blanket in the park and staring up at the sky. What a tableau they make—the widow and the widower lying side-by-side.

“Just thinking.”

“About Bucky?” Becca asks.

“No,” Steve says, his brain absently trying to make sense of the amorphous shapes that are the clouds. “Not exactly anyway.”

“You know you can talk about him if you need to. I don’t want to bury my grief and pretend they all never existed.”

Steve glances at her, her dark curls spread behind her head like a veil. Her cheekbones are more prominent than they had been last summer.

“I guess I thought when the war was over, I’d feel some kind of…” Steve inhales, a face in one of the clouds staring down at him. “Closure, I guess. I thought I’d feel like his death meant something, like it was important.” He glances at Becca again, her brow furrowed. “Hell, Becca, I don’t mean…”

“I know what you mean, Steve.” She sits up on the blanket, toying with the seam in her wide-leg trousers. “I think I felt the same way. Like the war being over would tie up my grief in a nice little bow, close the lid on the box and lock all the pain away. And throwing myself into the effort was the way that I kept going, a reason to pick myself up every day. Almost like I was avenging Bucky and Tommy and Uncle James and everyone else who didn’t come home.”

Steve sits up beside her and nods. “But now it’s over and Buck’s still gone,” Steve says. “And winning the war isn’t doing a goddamn thing to make it stop hurting.”

“And maybe,” Becca continues, “maybe I’m starting to realize that war is nothing but senseless killing whether it’s necessary or not, that if you really think about it, Bucky and Tommy didn’t have to die. Christ, it’s a terrible thing, Steve, what a few important men in a few important rooms can take from the rest of us.”

On the blanket between them, Steve clasps Becca’s hand and holds it. It’s a comforting warmth under his palm.

They sit like that for some time, watching the birds flit through the trees and the other families taking advantage of the nice day. Every now and then, a family contains someone who obviously made it home from the fighting. It’s some small comfort to know not every family in New York was torn completely apart.

* * *

It’s Sunday and Ruthie and Janie are taking Steve to the cleaners. Steve is, as always, playing as the top hat, his little silver piece now sitting on one of Ruthie’s properties.

“Tough luck, Steve,” Ruthie says, but she grins at him, her palm outstretched.

“Oh c’mon, Ruthie, don’t I get a family discount?” he asks, his stack getting low while he counts out money.

“Nope,” she says, and he slaps the wad of multi-color cash into her hand. Her roll now—she’s always the thimble. Janie, on the other hand, picks a different piece every game (the race car today).

“Coffers getting low there, Steve?” Becca strides into the room and stands over them where they play on the floor.

“Yeah, I’m starting to wonder why this game is meant to be fun.” Steve gently slaps her on the calf with the backs of his fingers. “You wanna tag in and save me some punishment?”

“With those two little sharks?” Becca ruffles her sisters’ hair, earning a hiss from Janie. “Not a chance.”

Steve smiles at up at her. She has on a simple navy skirt and a white blouse, her brown curls pinned at the back of her neck. Lately, she’s really taken with loose trousers when she isn’t working or going to church, especially on Sunday afternoons. Steve gives her a quick look up and down and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m going to see Tommy’s family later,” she says.

“If you need someone to walk you, let me know.”

“I will.” She plops down on the sofa after that, opening up a pulp novel about a deep sea diver set upon by sea creatures. Steve turns back to his game and to a little girl trying and failing to look inconspicuous.

“Janie Georgette Barnes, don’t think I didn’t see you land on my railroad,” Steve says, and after a fair amount of tickling, he collects his due.

* * *

He and Becca have hot dogs while Janie and Ruthie squeal their way down the beach, doing their best to launch a kite, weaving around other beachgoers in the process.

“I know they would love to have you back,” Becca says.

“I can’t do it, Becca. It’s like what we talked about. Knowing how unnecessary war is and what it takes from people, and for what?”

“The mission’s changing Steve.” She wipes at the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. “Think about stopping wars from happening to begin with. Amongst other things. I can’t tell you a whole lot since you don’t have clearance anymore, but the SSR is turning into something else altogether.”

“If something exists that claims it wants to stop war, I’m glad it has you.” Steve watches Janie and Ruthie’s kite catch the right gust of wind, both of them screaming in triumph.

_This is the kind of stuff I hope you get to see. Wherever you are._

“If you don’t come back, you should think of doing something,” Becca says. “Even if it’s just a hobby.”

He watches the kite bob and swoop, the girls running back and forth across the beach to keep it flying.

“I’ll be okay,” Steve says. Becca doesn’t push any further.

* * *

Steve sits with Bucky on the Ferris wheel. It’s nighttime and the wheel has stopped at the very top, the dark and the height hiding the way that their hands are clasped together. Bucky’s skin is smooth and warm, his thumb brushing affectionate arcs across Steve’s knuckles.

“Have you ever seen so many stars?” Bucky asks, his head tilted back, his lower lip hanging down in wonder.

Steve looks up. The night sky seems alive, the stars bright, each of them glittering and winking.

“Why did you leave?” Steve asks, Bucky’s thumb still rolling across the bones of his hand, one after the other, like the mallet of a xylophone being dragged across every key. 

“Stevie, I’m right here,” Bucky says, and the Ferris wheel is gone but the stars remain, visible over the shadowy line of Bucky’s neck and hair. They’re in the sand now, the beach empty except for them. Bucky curls against his side, his lips petal-soft against Steve’s cheek.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Bucky repeats between every kiss. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

The words are still echoing in Steve’s head when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone keeping up with this story. Your comments, kudos, subs, and bookmarks are sustaining me through these shorter days. <3


	10. Ten

> _September 10, 1943_
> 
> _Mrs. Lipnicki,_
> 
> _We have not met before. My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107 th division. I served with your son Teddy. By the time you get this, I imagine you will already know Teddy is no longer with us. I cannot imagine how you must feel right now, and I would never pretend to know._
> 
> _I first met Teddy in basic in Wisconsin, along with another fella from Jersey by the name of Janosi. Janosi was always telling tall tales, you see. He thought since I grew up in Brooklyn that he could pull one over on me for a laugh. So there we are after a grueling day of running maneuvers when Janosi tries telling me that over in Jersey, dance halls have been outlawed._
> 
> _I said to him, “That can’t be right.”_
> 
> _“It’s true, Barnes,” Janosi told me. “It goes back to colonial times. You remember Hamilton and Burr, right? Well, duels happened all the time over in Jersey. Everywhere you turned, there’d be a duel. And they almost always got started at a party when people got too hot under the collar. So Jersey outlawed gatherings of ten or more people. No big gatherings means no dance halls.”_
> 
> _It was one of those things that sounded just plausible enough that I had to wonder if he was telling the truth or just yanking my chain. And then I see Teddy on his bunk, trying so hard to hold in a laugh that he sounded like a tea kettle for how the air was going through his lips._
> 
> _“Something funny?” I asked him, and Teddy finally let it all out. Your boy, he had a laugh that could make even the worst days a little better._
> 
> _“Yeah,” Teddy said, still laughing, “Janosi here just made church illegal in Jersey.” Not one of us could keep it in then._
> 
> _Your Teddy was a good kid, Mrs. Lipnicki, one of the best. He saved my life, and he saved church in Jersey. He loved you dearly and spoke of you often._
> 
> _I do not know if this will be a comfort to you, or if you will wish I had not written at all, but I know if something happens to me, it is the kind of thing I would want my own mother to know._
> 
> _So here it is. It was fast how Teddy went. It happened in the blink of an eye, and I doubt he even knew he was going. It should not have happened, and I wish to God it had not, but know that he did not suffer at the end._
> 
> _If it can help your grieving heart for even a moment, I promise you that he will be remembered by everyone who knew him. I know I will never forget that wonderful laugh._
> 
> _Please call on Winnifred and George Barnes in Brooklyn if you ever need anything, Mrs. Lipnicki. You can tell them Bucky sent you._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes_

**October 1945**

The soldier sits in a dark room, his chair pulled back from the window to make him harder to spot from the sidewalk below or, more importantly, from the shop across the street. The binoculars shake in his hands, but he is on a surveillance mission and will have to wait until the morning to fulfill bodily needs like eating.

The shop is quieter during the late hour, but it is not completely silent. The soldier notes a woman with brown curls in olive green. For a moment, his heart kicks up in his chest. He can see the file in his head, the one he has hidden away in the walls of an old factory he uses to acquire the necessary amount of sleep.

_Margaret “Peggy” Carter, 24, skilled in marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat._

This woman is not her. He does not catch her face, but the proportions aren’t right and the hair is too long.

Something tugs at the soldier’s awareness while this brunette woman pulls open the door to the shop, but the tug leaves him as quickly as it comes.

It begins to rain twenty-four minutes later.

Forty-seven minutes later, the brunette exits the shop. He knows her only by her shape and gait, her face hidden by a bright red umbrella.

Four more people enter the shop before the sun begins to color the sky. The soldier catalogues them all—a Black man with a black umbrella, a pale man with a black umbrella, a brown woman with a green umbrella, a pale woman with a polka-dot umbrella in red and white. No faces. No Margaret “Peggy” Carter either, though it is not altogether impossible that the pale man was Howard Stark. The soldier has not seen Stark yet to have a handle on his physicality, though something tells him that the pale man did not fit.

It would not matter. The soldier needs all of his targets present at once, and he needs to know how to quietly infiltrate the facility so that he can eliminate them all accordingly.

In due time.

As the first morning rays color the city, the soldier slips out of the building. He smiles at a man in a suit.

“Wet this morning, eh?” the man says casually, clinging to a black umbrella.

“I’ll say,” the soldier says back. The soldier has a black umbrella of his own. He would potentially stand out if he did not have an umbrella, and umbrellas are useful places to hide additional tools and weapons. The benefits of being less wet and less cold are inconsequential.

The taste of the food he buys is also inconsequential, as is the hardness and chill of the old factory floor when he curls up on it to sleep.

* * *

The soldier does not go into the shop. Instead, he makes a trip to Queens, to another shop that promises similar goods. A bell rings over the door when he steps inside, his nose itching from the scent of dust. The soldier sneezes into the elbow of his current uniform—a jacket over a button-down shirt, pants with suspenders, and a flat cap.

“Bless you,” the shopkeeper says. He is an older man with tufts of gray hair and a polished-to-shine wooden cane.

“Thank you,” the soldier says.

“Is there anything in particular I can help you with today, young man?”

The soldier looks around. “I don’t know what I’m looking for yet. My Ma’s birthday is coming up soon, you know.” The soldier blinks. The words had come so easily that for a moment they had felt true, but his mother Brigitte’s birthday is in the spring. Herr Schneider told him so.

“Well, my name is James,” the shopkeeper says, and the soldier grinds his teeth together, a spike of pain flashing through his skull like lightning—gone as quick as it came. The soldier blinks. The shopkeeper is still talking. “…around and see if anything speaks to you. And if you feel completely and hopelessly lost at what to get her, let me know and I’ll be happy to step in.” The shopkeeper lifts his cane and gives it two happy taps on the counter before putting it back on the floor and hobbling over to a cushiony chair. 

“I appreciate it,” the soldier says, moving away from J— from the shopkeeper. He starts at one end of the shop, cataloguing various items and thinking about the women he has seen in the city since he stepped off the boat. What would any one of them like? What would his own mother like for that matter?

In his mind, he can clearly see the photo Herr Schneider gave him. It is the only clear image he has after the Americans took them all away, but he can remember vague images of his family when he tries hard enough. Laughter, music, tables laden with food. In his mind, a blonde woman leans over his skinned knee, carefully cleaning and bandaging it. He can remember her blowing gently to take away the sting of the antiseptic.

The soldier steps around an armoire, looking up and down the aisles of the shop. He saw a woman on the sidewalk that morning in an ornate hat. He eyes a display of vintage hats, taking in layers of lace and mesh and feathers, and then his eyes light on a jewelry case nearby. There on a bed of velvet lies a brooch. It is made of silver inlaid with stones, the metal forming a curve of intricate filigree upon which perches a bird.

His mother loves birds. He thinks.

Inconsequential to the mission. He calls the shopkeeper over and pays in cash, declining a receipt. Back at the warehouse, he tucks the brooch into his things. Herr Schneider has promised he will be able to go home when Project Valkyrie is complete.

_“We will have no need for you after that.”_

The soldier closes his eyes for just a moment. He tries to imagine the brooch on the lapel of the blonde woman from his memories.

He fails.

* * *

After consuming a meal for optimum functionality, the soldier sets up for another afternoon and evening of surveillance. He notices a black car parked on the curb. A man leans against it casually smoking a cigarette.

The man and his partner were both there the previous night. They are guards then. The soldier will need to avoid them on the way out.

The smoking man nods at a Black woman on her way inside. The soldier does not recognize her, but he catalogues her face. She has a wide nose and round cheeks. She wears her dark hair braided and pulled into a bun.

Things are quiet for a while after she disappears into the shop. A brown boy with a dog walks by on the sidewalk. He does not interact with the building or the guards. The soldier will remember him because he only forgets things when the missions are over, but he pushes the boy to the side in his mind.

Two hours and seven minutes after nightfall, the brunette woman exits the building. He knows it is the same woman as the previous night by her shape and walk. This time though, he sees her face. It catches the light of a streetlamp when she steps out from under the awning, gold-yellow filling in the lines and curves of her nose and lips. The soldier inhales, pressing the binoculars hard against his eye sockets.

She has thick eyebrows, sharp cheekbones like she hasn’t been getting enough to eat these days, and a dimple in her chin that— The soldier starts to raise his hand to his own face, and then like in the shop in Queens, pain flares through his head like lightning. This time, though, it does not subside in a flash. The soldier has to dive deep into his training to keep from crying out, pressing his palm to his forehead and breathing heavily.

It feels like something is trying to burrow its way out of his brain and does not care what it damages along the way.

_“You can’t!” “I can so!”_

In his head, a little girl with brown curls holds up a stick. Boys jeer and taunt her.

_“Hey batta batta, hey batta batta, swing!”_

“There are nine key tenets,” he hisses in German, stopping to grind his teeth together.

_The crack of a ball making contact, the sound of feet pushing against the ground._

The soldier starts over in French. “There are nine key tenets to the Hydra philosophy.” He lists them all. He lists them again in Romanian. In Mandarin. In Spanish. In Afrikaans.

Something hot runs down his face. He wipes at it and stares at his hand where it glistens in the darkness. Hydra’s greatest soldier has no use for tears.

(Hydra’s greatest soldier cannot stop. Christ, why the hell can’t I—)

The soldier curls up on the floor, drawing his knees close to his chest.

He does not move until the sun starts to rise. His head is still throbbing when he sprawls on the floor of the old factory.

* * *

She will not stop stealing his books. He finds her on the fire escape with one of his copies of _Weird Tales_ , her curls flying in the wind. She has stolen a pair of his trousers too, the legs of them rolled up three or four times so they do not hang past her feet.

“I better not find a single page out of place, —” He calls her by her name here. He knows he does. But it sounds like a bad radio, all static and noise. She does not look up at him at all, licking her fingers and turning the page.

He hates it when she does that.

“Hey brat, don’t get your spit all over my stuff if you’re gonna borrow it without asking.”

Something hurts. Something hurts so much. He puts his hands on his head. She licks her fingers and turns another page.

And she is gone. She is gone and there is a blond man sitting where she sat, a sketchbook spread over his skinny knees.

Something hurts again. The sold— B— He puts a hand on his chest, leaves the other one on his head.

“If I whisper, no one will hear me,” the blond man says, his hands moving quickly over the paper, charcoal dust clinging to his fingertips. The blond man drops his voice low, the words formed more in the movement of his lips than in the air that escapes them. “If I say it really quiet, no one will hear me tell you how much I love you, —. I love you. My whole life maybe, I’ve loved you, and I still do, and no one can stop me.”

A sound like a microphone feeding back. Hands over ears, but it won’t stop. It won’t goddamned stop.

On the cold floor of an old factory in Brooklyn, New York, the soldier wakes with wet eyes and a skull splitting apart.

* * *

Like the shop in Queens, a bell rings above the door when he enters. The proprietor of this shop is old as well—a woman with pale skin and gray hair.

“There’s rain coming. My old bones can feel it.”

The soldier blinks at her while he processes the words. This must be a code of some kind. Hydra has codes. There are basic authorization codes full of letters and numbers. Phrases. Hand gestures. He and Herr Schneider have code words in case they are ever captured together.

The soldier does not know how to respond to this one though, unfortunately.

“Then I’d better hurry,” he says, smiling at her and moving away from the door. There is a stack of old books on a table in the corner, and he goes to look at them, reading the golden letters on the spines.

“Is there anything in particular I can help you find?” she asks stiffly. The truth is that the shop has a terrible selection of goods, probably by design. He wonders how many real customers they get.

He picks up a book, rubbing his thumb over the letters.

_The Time Machine_. She stole that one all the time.

The soldier grunts and presses a palm to his forehead. His sister. The girl in his dream was probably one of his sisters. He stares at the book and realizes he does not know if his sisters can even speak (or read) English.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” he says, putting the book back down and moving to look at an old gramophone. The bell above the door dings again, and the soldier looks over to find a man he had seen outside tying his shoe. Another guard. That makes four that the soldier knows about. The woman greets him with a different phrase.

“The leaves have started to fall,” she says.

“So it seems.”

The soldier continues to browse while the guard converses with the old woman about a rare clock that the soldier is certain does not even exist. He is almost giddy with how easy it is to slip a listening device into the shop.

They will go over every single thing he has touched after he leaves, of course, which is why he does not put it in any of the things he touches. Every look is a misdirection for the device he already planted—an umbrella in a stand of many by the door, slipped in amongst the others before the old woman even came out of the back.

He browses the store for some time more before he is sure that the only possible entrance to the facility lies behind the curtain, and then he goes back for the H.G. Wells.

“Should’ve gotten this in the first place. Would’ve saved me a lot of time.” He smiles at the old woman and pays her in cash.

He takes a long loop back to his surveillance post, taking a back alley and a rooftop to avoid being spotted by anyone who might recognize him. Inside, he peels off several prosthetics meant to disguise his appearance, manufactured by the same woman who creates the Red Skull’s false face.

He has the code phrase and its correct answer within the hour. It may change before the opportunity presents itself, but that is no matter so long as the umbrella stays in place.

Now all that is left for the soldier to do is wait.

He is very, very good at waiting.

* * *

He has the blond man by the hand. There are scabs on the blond man’s knuckles, and he kisses every one.

He has the blond man by the hand. This is their first kiss, a soft and uncertain brushing of lips. A whimper. The blond man’s hand curls around the back of his neck and holds on like he might disappear.

He has the blond man by the hand. They are dancing in the living room, dancing like his ma and pa dance—like a couple dances. There are girls there. The one who steals his books is older now, her cheekbones filled in as they should be. She has stolen _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ and has it open in her lap. One of the younger girls makes her doll dance in time with the music. The youngest works on a drawing of a bird made of sharp, messy lines of crayon. A man with hair just starting to go gray taps his foot while sitting in his chair. The smell of food wafts in from the kitchen. Everything is perfect and right even if he is days away from leaving for—

The soldier wakes up shaking on a cold cement floor.

“Steve,” he whispers, the name coming to his mind and mouth so easily in those few minutes after waking. When the dream fades out of memory, the name fades with it.

* * *

He takes a different path to his surveillance point. It is a longer route, but the nightmares have him waking much earlier than intended so it is no matter. He will need to tell Herr Schneider about this post-mission. Optimum functionality should have lasted longer than this without him needing to see the doctor for treatment. It is troubling.

His path takes him on a zig-zag pattern through a ten block area. Down one street, right, down another street, left, left again, right, left, right, right. He doubles back once by making the full block, before moving over exactly one street and starting back on his path.

He is nearly to the fire escape that he will scale so he can make his final approach over the rooftops, and then he hears a grunt and a wheeze. Training dictates he ignore it, and yet his head swings toward the sound. There, a large man with strawberry blond hair has his shoe in the gut of a much smaller man. He kicks once, then again.

Training dictates the soldier keep going. They are not targets or fellow servants of Hydra.

They are not my mission.

The soldier’s feet turn anyway. He stalks down the alley.

“Hey pal, this don’t concern you,” the big guy says.

The soldier looks down at his opponent, curled in a ball on the pavement. He is a wisp of a brunet, clutching his gut.

“I said this don’t concern you. Move along.”

The soldier meets the big guy’s eyes. The soldier raises a fist.

Like the books and the gramophone in the shop, it is a misdirection. The big guy’s air whooshes out of his lungs when he hits the pavement, a sweep of the soldier’s leg easily taking him down. The soldier kicks him once, then lets the big guy get up and stumble out of the alley.

From the ground, the brunet stares up at him. The soldier stares back for exactly three seconds before he takes off at a run. He is up the fire escape before he stops to process.

Not optimal at all. He will need to let Herr Schneider know.

* * *

Howard Stark visits the shop and the place it conceals. The soldier knows him before he even sees his face.

* * *

He has a nightmare again. He wakes with a moan and a name on his lips.

He cannot remember the name or why he made the sound.

He cannot remember.

His head hurts so bad that he vomits on the floor of the factory and has to clean it up before he can leave for surveillance.

* * *

Howard Stark visits again. This time Margaret Carter is with him. They enter the shop together.

“It’ll be winter before we know it.” The old woman’s voice crackles out of the soldier’s receiver.

“Not to worry,” Stark says. “I’ve got my beach clothes in the car.”

Stark and Carter. The soldier pries up the floorboards and removes the briefcase he stashed there when he found the shop. He removes a second uniform—a brown suit and a hat—and dresses with his eyes on the shop across the street. He only needs one more person to go inside and he can complete the mission and go home. No more nightmares. No more headaches.

The soldier checks the contents of the briefcase, never looking away from the shop for a moment.

Thirty minutes pass.

Forty-five.

Two hours and seventeen minutes later, Colonel Edward Hansen steps out of a black car and into the shop. The soldier shuts down the receiver and places it and the binoculars beneath the floorboards. Then he picks up the briefcase and exits through the back of the building. He smiles at the brown boy with a dog when they pass each other at the crosswalk. He nods at one of the guards and pulls open the door to the shop.

He has picked up the umbrella by the time the old woman slips out of the curtains.

“It’ll be winter before we know it.”

“Not to worry,” the soldier says. “I’ve got my beach clothes in the car.”

She nods at him and goes for a button beneath the counter. He walks through the curtains like he knows where to go. In a hallway that seems to lead nowhere, he stops before a wall of books. He begins searching for a way to open it before it opens up all on its own. Inside is a long corridor with several intersecting doors and hallways, plus two double doors at the end. To his right is another door, a stairway visible through a pane of glass. The soldier decides to start there, turning and heading for it. He has his hand on the door knob when he hears heels clicking quickly across the linoleum.

“Oh, hold the door please!”

He turns back, a smile at the ready. It is the brunette woman, a stack of files in her arms. Lightning strikes, bolts of pain curling through the soldier’s brain like so many hands squeezing. As though it struck her too, she jolts, the file folders falling to the floor in a flutter of papers. Even through the screeching in his head, the soldier hears her gasp.

Staring. She is staring.

Being stared at is not optimal. Being stared at is being remembered.

He should kill—

The pain gets worse. He does not know how it could possibly get worse, but there it is, throbbing in his skull.

She’s still staring.

Mission compromised.

“So then I said to her, lady, I would love nothing more than to get out of here, but I’ve got a war to win.” Stark’s voice echoes from the stairs.

“Howard, honestly.” Carter.

“Stark, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Where are we on the new facility?” Hansen.

The soldier looks down at the briefcase in his hand. They are right there. All three targets. He just needs to activate the—

“Bucky?” the brunette breathes, and B— the soldier heaves and drops the umbrella—mission compromised, mission compromised, mission compromised. He barely manages to hold onto the briefcase.

Knuckles white, he bolts past her. A few people yell at him to stop on his way out. One of the guards hollers for him to freeze, but the soldier crashes into him and keeps going, scaling the first fire escape he finds to get off the street and up onto a roof.

He does not know where he is going, only that he has to go. One building and then another and so many more. Back down to the street level. His feet take him somewhere, somewhere where clothes hang on lines and he knows there is a key beneath a brick, but he still knocks and he does not know why.

A blond man answers the door, his hair askew, the outline of a pencil on his cheek like he fell asleep sketching again.

The blond man stares at him like the brunette woman did—wide-eyed, the color draining out of an already pale face. His hands are shaking and the soldier wants to take them in his own.

No, he doesn’t.

Christ, yes the hell I do.

Why does he want…?

“Bucky?”

The soldier blinks once, twice. “Who the hell is Bucky?” the soldier grits out, just in time for the pain to reach its peak, the world going black on a wave of nausea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how are we all feeling? :)
> 
> Because of who I am as a person, of course I looked up antique brooches (that would've been old enough in the 40s to be in an antiques shop) and [here it is](https://cdn0.rubylane.com/_pod/item/765870/CC666/Victorian-bird-brooch-two-Amethysts-silver-full-1o-2048-19-f.png) if anyone wants to see it as;lkdfj


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains yet another beautiful art piece by [not_worms](https://twitter.com/not_worms) and I'm so happy she could bring the scene to life.

> _June 12, 1945_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _Ma says its okay if I still write you letters. I asked pa if you would get them in heaven and he said he thinks you probally will expeshally if I leave it on your old bookshelf. I guess you probally can’t write me back though._
> 
> _Anyway its my birthday today and I think ma and pa are getting me sweets and a new dress but I think I would never get another prezent again if I could just have my big brother back. I know you are in heaven though. I guess that is good._
> 
> _I just miss you a hole lot. I even miss when you would pull my braids even though I hatted that and would get mad at you._
> 
> _I know it would be a mirackle and I understand if you would rather stay in heaven since its nice but please considder asking God if you can come home even for a little while?_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Ruth_

**October 1945**

_Steve and Bucky are home after church and dinner at the Barneses. Spring is giving way to summer, and Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt the moment they walk through the door, already starting on his pants while Steve watches fondly._

_They settle on the sofa in their shorts and undershirts, their heads at opposite ends, Steve with his sketchbook and Bucky with a novel, their bare legs tangled together between them. This is how it goes when the planets align and they get to be home together. Steve draws and Bucky reads aloud. Sometimes Steve listens. Other times, he lets Bucky’s voice fade into the background—a comforting sound of home._

_“You drawing me again?” Bucky asks casually. He has the book sitting open on his chest, upside-down so that it looks like an odd paper bird._

_“June bug,” Steve says, turning the sketchbook around. “I promised her a drawing if she let me stay at her hotel for free.”_

_Bucky grins warmly at the rough outline of his little sister. “You know they cheat any second you’re not looking, right? That’s why they’re so good.”_

_“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, and Bucky squeezes his ankle affectionately before picking up the book again. The hours tick by, Janie’s face taking shape. She has Winnie’s nose, Steve notes, pausing for a moment to open and close his fist to flex the built-up tension out of his fingers._

_“‘…good phrase that,’” Bucky reads. “‘The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of the circumstances.’”_

* * *

The words rattle around in Steve’s skull, bouncing from here to there like rubber balls. He has the telegram filed away where he never has to look at it. He has the paperwork that gets him the benefits of being Bucky’s next of kin. A copy of the death certificate. That horrible letter where Bucky told him the truth of it all. In drawers Steve only opens when he must, he has every scrap of legal and personal proof that Janes Buchanan Barnes is dead.

On his porch, he has James Buchanan Barnes, unconscious and half-slumped up against the railing. Breathing. Living.

Steve won’t be able to move him on his own, so he settles for getting a pillow and pushing Bucky half onto it. Even that is difficult—Bucky seems heavier than Steve remembers.

She’s there by the time he finishes, running across the yard where clothes dangle from lines like so many ghosts. Steve hasn’t seen her move so fast since they were kids playing stickball. There are strands of hair coming loose from where she pinned it up in the back. 

“Steve, I think I’ve cracked,” she pants hoarsely, still coming his way. “There was a man and—” Becca skids to a halt when she notices the figure on the concrete. She takes a moment to stare, craning her neck over the railing and blinking down. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she stifles a single sob, and then she stumbles her way around the bars and up the stairs—awkward and uncoordinated like a newborn foal—to throw herself onto the concrete beside him.

She touches Bucky like one might touch the pages of an ancient book—her fingers ghosting over his knuckles so lightly that they could’ve been the wind.

“I don’t understand,” she says, every blink of her eyes sending water down her cheeks.

“I don’t either.”

“God,” Becca says. “God, you absolute bastard, we thought you were dead.” All the while, she does her best to pull Bucky into her arms.

It’s seeing her do it that makes Steve wonder why he’s not doing the same, and he slides onto the concrete beside her, fitting himself into the spaces that she doesn’t fill.

It all feels unreal, like one of the better dreams Steve has had about Bucky—those happy moments where they’re together in a park or making love on the floor of their bedroom—and Steve expects to wake any moment and find his bed as empty and cold as it’s been for the past two years. But then Steve gets close enough to smell him. The lingering scents of the soaps he must be using are unfamiliar, as is whatever he’s put in his hair, but beneath that? Steve presses his nose into Bucky’s neck and breathes him in, his heart giving a throb within his chest.

It’s him. It’s him and no dream has ever given Steve this smell that he couldn’t have remembered perfectly if he had access to God’s own perfumery and all the hours time will ever hold.

“We should get him inside,” Steve chokes.

“Yes.” Becca sniffs and gets up gracelessly, helping Steve back to his feet. Together, they manage to drag Bucky to the couch. They put his briefcase beside him on the floor.

“Should we send for a doctor?” Steve asks. “He’s been out too long already.”

“I’ll go call,” Becca says. She nearly makes it to the door before Bucky blinks awake.

There’s a moment where he looks so normal that Steve thinks this is it. Bucky is home and they’ll all go together and tell the rest of the Barneses it was all some big mix-up, and tomorrow they’ll restart their lives.The paperwork will be a headache, but that won’t matter because Bucky is alive. He is beautifully and perfectly alive.

Then Bucky sits up on the couch like a startled animal, his eyes darting in multiple directions—Steve, Becca, the door, and around the apartment. His gaze falls on the board over the bath tub where Steve was sketching before he arrived. It goes next to the kitchen knife Steve used to cut up fruit for his lunch.

“Bucky?” Steve asks quietly, and Bucky visibly startles and grits his teeth.

“No.”

Steve looks helplessly at Becca. Her hands twitch by her side.

“Bucky, where have you been?” Becca takes a step toward him and he flinches back. She doesn’t move any closer.

From his place on the sofa, Bucky continues to look around the room, as though he’s been tasked with cataloging every single object in it—the door, the knife, the half-full glass of water by the sink. And then his eyes fall on the photos hung up over the radio. He inhales sharply and gets up, crossing the room like a soldier on a mission.

Hesitantly, he raises one hand, tracing his fingers over the photos one by one. Ruthie is still a baby in a photo of the Barnes family. In it, George and Winnie sit on the sofa, Bucky and Becca on either side of them. George holds a squirming toddler Janie in his lap, her face screwed up like she just stopped crying. Winnie holds Ruthie, smiling down at her but with her eyes looking into the camera lens.

Next comes a photo of Steve and Bucky with Sarah and Winnie. Bucky and Steve are sixteen and seventeen in it, their first kisses already shared, their mothers already aware that something had changed even if their sons hadn’t yet told them what it was.

The next photo is the Barnes family again. This time, Steve’s there, leaning casually against Bucky behind the sofa. George and Winnie sit front and center with Janie and Ruthie on their laps—ages three and five respectively. Becca—right on the cusp of adulthood—chose Bucky’s other side, her smile matching her father’s.

There are more photos after that—framed strips of Steve, Bucky, and Becca from the 1941 Stark Expo. Framed strips of Steve and Bucky alone—including one where they took advantage of the privacy to steal a kiss.

The photos aren’t the sum total of their lives together, but they are fragments and pieces of it made permanent. Reminders that they know and love each other, that they have a history, that they have a family.

Bucky reaches for the family photo that includes Steve, pulling it off its nail and bringing it close to his face like he means to study it. He’s shaking so much, Steve worries he might just fall apart, all the pieces of him separating at the seams and crumbling to the floor. Bucky looks at him, then at the photo, looks at Becca, then at the photo. He puts his hand on the framed Stark Expo strips of just the two of them.

“Bucky?” Steve asks again, even softer this time. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes dart to the door again, to the photos, to the knife, to the briefcase, to the pulp novels on the rickety bookshelf, to Steve and Becca. His hands go to his head, the thumb and index fingers of his free hand pushing against his temples with so much force that his forehead goes white at either side.

“You’re not real,” Bucky says. “You’re a trick.” He squeezes his eyes closed as though that’ll make Steve and Becca disappear. Tears drip down his cheeks. “They made you up. They made you up to—.”

He mutters in German. He mutters in French—long strings of mismatched words that fill Steve with unease. Because Bucky doesn’t know German. Or French. Or any of the other languages that he very much seems to know. Steve recognizes some of them because his tenement is full of people who came from other places, and he recognizes enough to know Bucky isn’t just making up gibberish.

In Bucky’s hand, the glass on the picture frame gives way with a grating crack, the shards digging into Bucky’s flesh.

“Buck, stop,” Steve says, reaching for him. But Bucky lets the frame fall to the floor, holding tight to one of the glass shards, brandishing it like a weapon. He takes a defensive stance. Brow furrowed, he edges his way closer and closer to the door, eyeing them with the wariness of a feral cat.

“Bucky, don’t do this,” Steve says, because he knows what’s happening, because the wound of loss doesn’t just magically heal when you un-lose someone—it is like a scab picked clean, raw and tender. And like the smell of a storm on the horizon, Steve can feel the inevitability of re-losing, of Bucky taking his finger and sticking it right in that open wound.

“Not real,” Bucky mumbles, blood running down his arm. He gives them a pained look, his face screwed up something awful, and then he rips the door open and takes off. Steve barely makes it to the porch in time to watch him go, Bucky’s legs pumping impossibly fast until he disappears out of sight.

From behind Steve, Becca lets out a miserable sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Bucky reads aloud is from Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express and yes I spent a very long time looking for the perfect quote for that flashback don’t @ me. 
> 
> And before anyone kills me, reminder we're due another chapter tomorrow and Sunday as;ldkfj


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter I'm very excited to post because I just... love it a lot.

> _January 7, 1944_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _My name is Gabriel Jones. I served in Italy with the 92 nd division. In October, I met your son James when we were captured by enemy forces and taken to a POW work camp in Austria. I know a few of the other fellas called him Bucky sometimes. To the rest of us though, he was always Sarge._
> 
> _I admit I did not get to know your son as well as I wish I had. We were only together for a short time, but he was a great man with a great spirit. He joked in the face of the enemy, and he treated each and every one of us like family. Your son could mother hen like no other, ma’am, and he is probably the reason a lot of other good men actually made it home._
> 
> _I understand this letter may not be welcome. Revisiting grief is never easy, and I cannot know the pain of a mother who has lost her son, only the pain of a man who has lost many friends._
> 
> _That said, Sarge’s last words to us were a command that we reach out to his family. Pardon the language of soldiers under a great deal of stress, ma’am, but he specifically wanted you to know that you “had done every goddamned thing right.” Those were some of the last words he ever said to us._
> 
> _He also had a message for Steve, and I believe you will be able to pass it along. He asked us to tell Steve to take his time joining him. From all the things Sarge told us about Steve, I am inclined to agree. Then again, anyone Sarge cared about that much must be the kind of man of which this world needs many more._
> 
> _Sarge left us with one more instruction, and that was to make sure anyone marrying his younger sisters was worthy of them. Based on Sarge’s stories, I have a feeling your girls will grow up to be great judges of character all on their own. That said, if you ever need a second opinion, we were promised eternal haunting if we failed, so I would be more than happy to make an assessment at your request when the time comes._
> 
> _I would like to say again what a great man your son was. I met many great men in the war. Sarge was truly one of the best and he will not easily be forgotten._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Gabriel Jones_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _January 17, 1944_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Timothy Dugan and I once took a truly heavenly bath with your boy. Before you find yourself scandalized, ma’am, let me explain…_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _January 8, 1944_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _Pardon my English as I am learning still, but my name is Jacques Dernier and…_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _January 13, 1944_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _You do not know me, but I feel as though I know you. My name is Major James Montgomery Falsworth of Britain’s 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade, and I had the immeasurable pleasure of serving alongside Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes in…_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _January 8, 1944_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _The first time I ever met your son James, he was busy trying to barter candy for cigarettes. Lucky for him, I don’t smoke. I suppose I should introduce myself before I go too far. My name is Jim Morita and Sarge…_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _November 18, 1943_
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes,_
> 
> _I have started and restarted this letter many times. On Sunday, I read your son’s name in the paper. It was a shock as it has only been a couple of weeks since I received a letter from him._
> 
> _My own son, Theodore, served alongside your James. Theodore was killed in action a little over a month ago. When I got the telegram, it seemed such a formal and cold thing for my Theodore, even in death. Teddy was always so full of life and love and joy. I read that telegram again and again, hoping that if I did, the words would finally make some kind of sense. They never did. I never found my son in the spaces between those sentences. He simply was not there._
> 
> _Then I received the letter from your James. There were the words I needed to hear. In your son’s letter, I found my Teddy, the real Teddy. I learned that he had friends, that he laughed even on the darkest days. I learned that he was cared for and that he would be remembered in a way befitting him._
> 
> _Your son gave me something I needed during a time that was and has been the most difficult period of my life. It was an act of immeasurable kindness to both me and Teddy for him to write me that letter in the middle of a war. It is, unfortunately, a kindness I do not think I can properly repay. That said, when I saw his name, I knew it was only right that I try._
> 
> _Mrs. Barnes, I never met your son and know him only by that one letter, but from his words, I can tell he was a kind and beautiful soul who cared deeply for those around him. In his letter to me, he spoke of you and how he would want you to be comforted in the event of his death. I wish I knew the right words to provide that comfort for you._
> 
> _Instead, all I can say is that your son touched my life, and I am sure that he touched many more. I will remember James Buchanan Barnes for all of my days, and I believe the kind of son you raised speaks volumes about you and your husband._
> 
> _Thinking of you, praying for you, and hoping you find the comfort and peace that he would have wished for you._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Marlene Lipnicki_

**October 1945 - November 1945**

The soldier is no longer only functioning below optimal levels. He has dipped below the line into proper dysfunction. He cannot remember what he is supposed to do when he is dysfunctional.

“ _You must maintain optimum functionality_ ,” he can hear Herr Schneider saying. He cannot remember why Herr Schneider said this. “ _You heal quickly. Remove bullets and knives only if they are hindering you. Nothing else matters until the mission is over.”_

The soldier looks down at the gash in his hand. It is deep and painful, but the mission is not over. He ran from the mission. He ran and left the briefcase behind at the blond man’s apartment—it’s highly unlikely that the blond man and the brunette have not looked inside of the briefcase. It is highly possible that the brunette has informed the targets of its contents. The targets already have the umbrella.

Compromised.

The soldier breathes in and lets himself relax a fraction.

He knows what to do if he is compromised.

_“Columbia and Degraw. Schultze Pharmacy. You are looking for a cure for homesickness.”_

It takes the soldier a while to get there because he goes on foot, sticking to the shadows with the knowledge that there are probably people looking for him already. His hand throbs. He is thirsty and hungry.

Nothing matters until the mission is over.

There is a bell because there is always a bell. The soldier approaches the counter and waits patiently.

“What will it be for you today?” the proprietor asks, his accent reminding the soldier of Herr Schneider and the Red Skull. 

“A cure for homesickness.” The soldier should be more subtle, more conversational, less sweaty.But the man behind the counter nods toward a door that leads into a back room.

“Follow me.”

The soldier follows. He follows him through a room piled high with crates, something making him pause in the center of the room before the man turns and looks at him, gesturing for him to keep moving. He follows him through a hallway and into a tiny room barely large enough to hold one man. Inside there is a telegraph and an envelope.

“You know code, yes?” the man asks.

The soldier nods. He did not realize he knew code until he was asked. He cannot remember learning it. But he cannot remember learning English and he cannot remember learning how to shoot a gun from a great distance without missing.

“It will go where it needs to go,” the man says. “You are to open the envelope before using the machine.”

The soldier nods again.

“Heil Hydra,” the man says quietly.

“H— heil Hydra.” The soldier feels like a weight has been yanked from his shoulders when the man leaves him alone. The soldier closes the door and picks up the envelope. He struggles to open it with his injured hand. Not being able to ignore the pain is proof of his dysfunction. He tears the envelope open with his teeth.

For a brief moment, the contents of the envelope look like gibberish—letters and numbers thrown at random onto a page. But his brain is wired for numbers and patterns (always has been), and he finds them. This is a cipher he is meant to use.

He sits down in front of the telegram, the code in his head already shifting into the right configuration to match—

“ _I swear to Christ, Sarge, if I get one more ‘Hold your position. Stop,’ on this goddamned thing, I’ll—”_

B— the soldier has almost gotten used to pain in his head. It will not go away. It’s as stubborn as S…

This pain is new, another slice, another cut. He presses on the space between his eyes.

Compromised. He needs to tell them that he is—

_Compromised. He was compromised from the moment he met him, and he should’ve seen this coming. His lips taste like butterscotch candy when he—_

“ [Sehnsüchtig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059),” the soldier mutters. 

His fingers hover over the knob of the telegraph. His hand shakes. He needs to identify himself first. Three long dashes will signify the beginning of his coded message. Push down on the knob. He just needs to push down on the knob.

There is a commotion happening. He hears yelling. He thinks of small fists and blond hair—[ _neun_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)—but no, this is different.

“We know who you work for and we’ve known for a while. Now, tell us if you’ve seen this man.”

“Hydra does not give up its secrets,” he answers in German.

“Not to worry,” Margaret Carter says. “We’ll find them either way.”

There is a backdoor in the hallway. If they are smart, and he suspects they are, they will have people stationed outside of it. The soldier is trapped. Or is he? He thinks of the shop and the path he took to get into the room. There is the hallway that he came through. There is the room that he is in. There is the back room with its arrangement of crates and boxes. There is a shop next door. These places always share walls. A lot of them also share other things.

He could have imagined it—that thing that made him pause in his tracks. It was a change, subtle but noticeable. A draft coming from somewhere in the room. He sprints for the back room. The proprietor will only be able to hold off Carter and her legion for so long. He moves through the crates carefully and noiselessly, following the cool air until he finds its source. Behind a shelving unit, the wall seems to breathe. The soldier must focus to move the shelves without rattling the things they hold.

There is gunfire and yelling. The proprietor must not have been wholly alone, or the shop would have already fallen, and the soldier would be…

[ _Entführt._ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059/)

The shelves give way to an opening in the wall, and the soldier steps inside quickly, shifting the unit back over the doorway. He takes off into the dark, tracing his uninjured hand along the walls. Twice, he trips, but he manages to stay upright, roughly calculating distances as he goes. If he moves approximately two meters per footstep, then he should be under the metalworks shop by now, three stores away.

He reaches what must be the end of the block before he feels another break in the wall. They could be out there, of course. They could know about the tunnel. They could have decided to search the whole block.

The soldier will fight them if he must. He will fight them to get back to—

There are handholds that his fingertips fit into, and he uses them to push away whatever is blocking this entrance. He comes out in a small storeroom that opens onto a stairwell. He chooses to go up. He smiles when he finds roof access at the very top and spills into the late afternoon sunlight. [_Morgengrauen_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059). He can still hear gunfire, but can also gauge its distance, and he peers carefully over the side of the rooftop to assess the environment below.

They have surrounded the block, but no matter. The soldier looks, not toward Brooklyn, but toward the waterfront. There are two men between him and the East River. If he can disable them, he has a clear shot.

Not disable. Kill. He should kill them. Hydra would want them dead.

But Steve wouldn’t.

The thought comes with a throb in his skull.

Steve. His name is Steve.

The soldier sprints down the stairs and barrels through the back door. The men fire and they don’t miss, but they also don’t hit anything he cannot do without. He barrels into them, banging their heads together hard enough to knock them out. They will not be out long, but it will be long enough if he moves at top speed, sprinting and scaling fences—[ _verrostet_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)—with ease.

“Stop!” someone yells when he gets close to the river, and he does not know if it is one of them or someone else. It does not matter. The water is ice cold, and he feels his body seize up with the shock of it before he pushes past that, staying under until he is dizzy. He surfaces only to orient himself, following the coastline and fighting the currents until he swims so far from where he started that he knows they will not find him.

At a quiet place along the river’s edge, he pulls himself out, dripping wet and shivering. He finds the nearest building with broken windows and a layer of dust and crawls inside, curling up in the warmest corner he can find.

Steve. His name is Steve.

He brings a hand to his face and softly touches his fingers to his lips and thinks, [_siebzehn_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059).

* * *

He is back in the river, the depths sucking him down like a sinking ship. At the bottom, he rests on a bed of sand and silt. He is far from the surface, so far that he can see nothing but blackness when he looks up, like a night sky without moon or stars.

From within the depths, he hears laughter.

A little girl giggles, the sound distorted by the murk.

_“I just think he’s handsome is all.”_

_“Well he’s my best friend.”_

_“You can’t marry your best friend, Bucky. He’s a boy.”_

_“Like hell I can’t.”_

Her voice fades away, and in the darkness of the water, he sees the man with the glasses, his face emerging like a strange fish. He feels the burning in his veins. He feels the ice. He—

32557038.

He cannot have it. He cannot have who he is.

But he goddamned took it, didn’t he?

He took Steve and Becca and… and…

There is a man laughing and holding out his hand. His feet kick up sand at the bottom of the river. He is dancing and asking Bucky to dance too.

There is a hole in his head.

There is a gun in Bucky’s hand, the weight heavy, holding him to the bottom.

“I’m sorry, Janosi.” Bucky tries to tell him, but water seeps into Bucky’s mouth, eating up the words like a cork. He keeps trying though, gurgling long after Janosi has danced away.

The Red Skull comes next, congratulating Bucky on his service to Hydra. He is accompanied by Herr Schneider. Words float around them like ghosts— _Sehnsüchtig, Verrostet, Siebzehn, Morgengrauen, Heizstrahler, Neun, Freundlich, Heimkehr, Eins, Entführt_.

Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one. And the final word, the worst of them all. Kidnapped. Taken.

Give in, they beg. Give in. You are ours.

Fuck you, Bucky wants to say, but the water is still in his mouth.

He thinks it though. He thinks it again and again and again.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

When he wakes up, it is the first thing he says out loud.

* * *

He needs paper. He needs paper and a pencil. His brain is a jumble and he still is not sure what is real. The Americans—but _he_ is a goddamned American. Isn’t he?

He steals the notebook. He cannot risk being spotted.

On the first page, he writes the names he remembers.

Steve, Rebecca, Janosi.

He stares down at the notebook, like it might unlock some secret to knowing what is or is not true. Like the pictures in his apartment. Steve’s apartment. Their apartment? ( _[Eins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)._)

His head throbs, but it’s not as bad as it has been.

Janosi, Rebecca, Steve. He should try to go back, he knows. Steve might have answers to questions he has. Steve might be able to tell him who he is, who he is supposed to be. Rebecca would too. But the looks they both gave him back at the apartment. They are expecting someone the soldier—someone B— someone he is not. And they know about the briefcase and the horrible things he is capable of doing.

Janosi…

The dream comes back in shades of green and blue and black. A hole in Janosi’s head, a gun in the soldier’s hand.

The soldier squeezes his eyes shut and tries to connect his subconscious to memory. What did he do?

Red bleeds into red and shapes itself into a face. The Red Skull. Hydra’s most important… The soldier presses his palms against his face. He is panting and shaking. He should obey the Red Skull. He should respect the Red Skull. He is a soldier of Hydra and the Red Skull will take Hydra—

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

“Fuck you.”

_“Kill him_ ,” the Red Skull says. 

There it is. Janosi with his mouth covered, his eyes pleading for the soldier to remember. Janosi dancing. Janosi as his only company while he tried to hold onto Bucky Barnes under Zola’s cold eyes. Janosi filling his ears with stories of fucking Jersey. Janosi and Kaplan and Dugan and Morita and Dernier and…

A dull throb of pain.

“Fuck.” Bucky hunches over and presses on his eyes until he sees stars. When he lets go and blinks, hot tears spill down his cheeks, falling onto the dirty concrete beneath him like paint splatters. “Fuck.”

In the notebook, Bucky writes the names he remembers. Beside Janosi’s he adds three words: make it right.

He will not be able to, of course. There is no making a thing like that right. 

The voice that answers in his head is Steve’s.

Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.

* * *

He spends the rest of the day in the abandoned building by the river He leaves only to steal food and water, some of which he uses to wash the river stench from his skin. He manages to add one more name to his notebook by nightfall. Jones.

He has given all of them their own pages in the book, scribbling memories below each one.

He puts Zola and Schneider and Schmidt at the back.

He doesn’t like remembering what Hydra did.

He doesn’t like thinking of the way Zola demanded to know about Steve. He remembers a video of two men and realizes what they did and he hates them so much he could burn with it.

“Fuck you,” he says, leaving large pen marks across the back pages. It feels good to gouge them, to mar them, to do something he knows would enrage everyone who created the soldier inside of him. There he was, their perfect experiment and all it took to undo months of them fucking with his head was the face of his little sister.

* * *

Bucky sits on a carousel horse, his arms wrapped around the pole while every horse prances in a continuous circle. Off the carousel, there is nothing except darkness. No sky, no earth, no anything.

“Thanks for letting me skip the Cyclone today.” He turns his head and finds Steve next to him. He is barefoot with his pants rolled up like they just finished walking the beach. Bucky stares at his ankles and then at the hollow of his throat.

“Next time, you gotta ride it twice to make up for it,” Bucky teases. Steve has a dusting of freckles across his nose that says it is at least mid-summer. Bucky knows there will be more on his shoulders and his back, a million stars waiting for Bucky to press his lips to them, to write love notes in the lightyears between galaxies.

“So this is that spitfire blonde of yours then?” Janosi asks. He sits on the black horse in front of them like he was there all along. He looks between Steve and Bucky with an amused grin. There is an angry pink scar on his forehead. “You could’a told me, Sarge.”

“Now you know,” Bucky says. “Janosi, I—”

The black horse gallops on, riderless.

“It’s good to have you back, Sarge.”

Bucky swings his head around. Behind him, he finds Angelo atop a chestnut horse, Kaplan casually holding onto a standing pole next to him. 

More of them come after that. The carousel spins and spins, the horses taking on riders who appear and disappear like meteors. At one point, Bucky looks up and finds every horse full. Dugan and Morita ride before him. Jones sits to his left (Steve is still on his right, always on his right no matter what else changes.)

Farther ahead, Janosi laughs with Angelo and Kaplan, all of them watching Lipnicki attempt to ride a white horse backwards, his face split wide in a blinding smile. 

Farther behind, Dernier and Falsworth speak in low voices.

And then in the mirrors that ring the top of the carousel, he sees Rebecca. She is there with Ma and Pa and two little girls who are a lot bigger than he remembers. He cranes his neck in an attempt to see what their faces look like now, but they disappear a moment later. One by one, they all go, until he is alone with Steve again, the two of them reaching out to clasp each others’ hands while the blackness surrounding the carousel slowly brightens.

When the sunlight streaming in through the windows hits Bucky’s eyes, he blinks awake.

He remembers them all—Kaplan and Lipnicki and Angelo. Even Frank fucking Peterson. He remembers Jones and Falsworth. Minetti who Hydra took so early in  Kreischberg t hat he never even got to know him. He thinks of his notebook tucked away behind a loose brick and how much he has to put in it. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel it at first—the shift in the air, the faint whisper of Something Wrong at the back of his neck. 

He’s not alone. The gun goes off before he can find the intruder, something sharp and pointed lodging itself in his neck. He turns on his heel, the universe already blurring and swaying. A K98k rifle lowers, revealing blue eyes and a head of blond hair. 

“Good morning, Soldier. It is good to see you again.”

* * *

Cold. Hot. Hot. Cold.

Why is it that these bastards—

Zola’s voice fills his head. _Comply, Sergeant Barnes. It will be so much easier if you just comply._

“Mission report. Operation Blackbird.”

“Go to hell.” Bucky opens his eyes. He’s in the same abandoned building, on the floor with his arms bound against his body, his hands trapped behind his back.

Herr Schneider clicks his tongue in disappointment. “My dear soldier, did the Americans get their hands on you again? No matter, I will help you remember.”

Bucky glares at Schneider, taking in his plain clothes, the only indicator that he is something more than an average citizen coming from the knife hanging off his belt. 

“What are the nine key tenets?” Schneider asks.

“What are you doing here?” 

Schneider scoffs. “Did you really think you were alone this whole time, Soldier? Did you think we ever truly sent you off unaccompanied? We were always there in case intervention was needed. This would not be your first backslide.” 

“How did you find me?” 

Schneider smiles. “What are the nine key tenets?” 

Bucky glares. “Tenet one. Hydra is the biggest group of bastards in the—”

Schneider slaps him hard across the face, Bucky’s head whipping to the side. He stares at the concrete for a moment and then chuckles quietly. 

“You gonna let me finish or what?” Bucky asks.

“You are letting them fill you with blasphemous thoughts, Soldier. You must remember who you are, the importance of what we do. We are not far from our greatest achievement.”

“Oh, I remember who I am just fine.” Bucky sits up straighter. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. 32557038.”

Schneider sighs deeply. “I suppose we will do this the hard way then,” he says. “After, please remember this was for your own good. Sehnsüchtig, Verrostet…”

The headache comes back with a vengeance, blasting through Bucky’s skull. He knows those words. He dreamed those words. What do they do? 

What do they… 

"No.” No, they’ll wipe him out again. They will take Steve and Becca and his ma and pa and Janie and Ruthie and Janosi and babyfaced Lipnicki who cried for his Ma and was too damned young to… 

“Siebzehn, Morgengrauen, Heizstrahler.” 

Bucky can’t let this happen. He cannot. 

He opens his mouth and lets loose the first thing that comes to mind, the only song that manages to worm its way out of his fucked up consciousness. He sings so loud that he may as well be screaming. 

“ _T for Texas! T for TennesseeEE! T for…_ ” 

Schneider gets in his face, raising his voice over Bucky’s off-key singing. It’s a miracle of a mistake considering Schneider trained him, but Bucky figures he’s due a few miracles, goddammit. 

It rattles his skull when he bashes his forehead against Schneider’s, amplifying his headache and making him see stars. But he has whatever fucked up thing Zola put into him where Schneider’s just an average, everyday Nazi. Schneider drops like a bag of rocks, and Bucky barely takes the time to blink before he scrambles, rolling toward Schneider’s prone form. He gets his back to him, wiggling and craning to look over his own shoulder. His goal: Schneider’s knife.

It feels like almost no time has passed when Schneider lets out a groan, and Bucky can feel his mind moving in a hundred directions, calculating and assessing the way that Hydra taught him. It’s unlikely that he’ll be able to get out of the ropes and escape before Schneider wakes. He needs to fall back and find another way.

He rolls back across the floor. When Schneider comes to, he finds Bucky seemingly right where he left him. 

“And what good did that do you?” he asks. But Bucky has the knife sawing at the ropes in gentle motions. As long as Schneider doesn’t check for it… 

_I need another miracle, Pal, and I expect you to give it to me_.

“Physically, it didn’t,” Bucky says. “Spiritually though, I feel pretty damned good about it.” 

Schneider practically growls. “After I break you again, I am going to hurt you,” he says, getting close to Bucky but not close enough for a repeat. His eyes are blue and cold, and Bucky wonders how he ever thought them—even fleetingly—warm like the ocean on a clear day. Schneider keeps going. “I am going to break every bone in your body just to hear you scream. And I am going to do it slowly.” He stands and straightens his shirt. “Now where was I? Oh yes. Sehnsüchtig, Verrostet, Siebzehn…”

Bucky feels it when the knife has almost completed its journey, only a few strands of rope standing in his way. He’s strong and well-trained, but Schneider trained him. Schneider may be weaker and slower, but he has a mind for strategy and isn’t above being underhanded. Bucky has to play this the right way. And he has to do it now. He can already feel the headache escalating, his brain opening up to let the words in like so many parasites burrowing into his memories and consuming them whole. 

“Morgengrauen, Heizstrahler.” 

_“You must be like water, soldier. Every movement both fluid and relentless.”_

Sure thing, Herr Schneider. 

It happens in a series of movements that blend together flawlessly. Bucky uses his strength to snap the last bit of rope, tumbling away from Schneider and following that momentum to roll to his feet, the knife at the ready by the time he stands upright. 

In his head, he imagined this as the point he would stab Schneider. He considered throwing the knife, but that would mean giving up his only weapon, and Schneider might anticipate it, countering the move. So instead of a throw, Bucky charges him, aiming right for Schneider’s neck. 

It’s not that easy. 

Schneider lands a hit, slamming the side of his hand into Bucky’s windpipe and making him gasp in his next breath. In retaliation, Bucky kicks at Schneider’s legs, intent on tripping him to the floor. 

“You forget I know all of your moves, Soldier.” 

Every movement meets an opposite, and the memories start to flood in at the edges. Bucky gets flashes of countless hours training on mats, in the woods, and on rooftops. Schneider blocks his next move with his hand, the knife slicing through the side of his palm. There is a cry of pain, but Schneider does not stop fighting, aiming his other hand at Bucky’s nose. It gives way beneath his palm, spilling blood down Bucky’s face. 

It reminds him of Steve fighting against Frank Peterson, a scramble in the dirt that Steve somehow came out of victorious despite the blood gushing from his nose. 

“Hydra will not let you go,” Schneider says. “You know her. You know her plans and that she stands on the cusp of victory. Stop fighting and be what you were meant to be. Something greater. Something better. The next stage of humanity.” 

Bucky lands a punch in Schneider’s solar plexus even while Schneider blocks the knife again. 

It all swirls together. Steve’s gushing nose and a million fights. A war and blood and months of having his mind carved out and filled back in with things that didn’t belong. Deep water and carousels and loved ones alive and dead. 

It wells up in Bucky, a new level of rage, burning everything in its path. He is fire and brimstone. He is Vesuvius at Pompeii. [_Heizstrahler_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059). He lashes out like Steve would—unpredictable and erratic, but with the strength of Zola’s cocktails to back it up. He arcs a hit wide, bashing the side of his fist into Schneider’s ear. Schneider stumbles to the side, holding his head and blinking in confusion. 

Bucky seizes the opportunity. He slams all of his weight into Schneider, taking them both to the concrete, the knife finding a home somewhere on the way down. Below him, Schneider’s eyes go wide in realization, his hands grabbing at Bucky’s shirt like if he holds on tight enough, he can keep his body from slipping away. 

“Cut off one head…” Schneider wheezes. Then, shuddering at the inevitable, he gasps in one more breath. “Heil…Hydra.” 

Bucky leans down, putting his mouth right next to Schneider’s ear. With all the energy he has, right down to the marrow of his bones, he hisses, “Fuck. you.” 

* * *

The world feels like a dream. Bucky sits on a rooftop, staring down at the Brooklyn Bridge and clinging to his notebook. A chilly autumn wind whips at his hair and clothes, and he knows the feeling of cold clinging to the tip of his nose. It brings back memories of being forced into coats, of throwing snowballs at Steve and his sisters, and of running full speed into piles of autumn leaves.

Bucky thinks of a time he and Steve fell into the apartment after a trek to Central Park to enjoy the changing colors (and maybe to stop off at the Met again before winter set in and made traveling that far an even bigger chore). Right inside the door, he had nuzzled his nose against Steve’s—somehow even colder than his own—before meeting his lips. 

It’s a memory that feels like it belongs to someone else, to another version of him from a lifetime ago. It blurs at the edges like a mist, feeling hazy and unreal. Just like the Brooklyn Bridge. Just like the memories bleeding back into his skull and writing themselves over the blank spaces that existed before he saw Rebecca. Every corner he turns, he feels like he finds something old that is something new. 

There is the automat where he and Steve tangled their ankles together beneath the table. There is the building where there used to be an empty lot where he played stickball as a kid with Angelo and Kaplan and Becca. [_Freundlich_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059). There is an alley where he found Steve in a fight. There is another alley where he found Steve in a fight. There is yet another alley—Jesus, Stevie—where… 

On the rooftop, Bucky closes his eyes, white-knuckling the notebook. He doesn’t know what to do. By his figures, he spent almost two years having Hydra tell him his every move. Before that, he had the Army. 

But Schneider is dead and the war is over except for… 

Except for. 

“Fuck.” 

Bucky frantically turns pages in the notebook until he finds a blank sheet. 

_Project Valkyrie - Weapons factories_

They never told him what Valkyrie would be. Who tells a gun what other weapons its shooter holds?But he knows, doesn’t he? 

In his head, he watches Angelo disappear in a beam of blue. He remembers working and the blue glow that slid in through the window of one of Zola’s laboratories. Snippets of conversations. The briefcase that he left behind in Steve’s apartment, that he now knows is likely still in Steve’s apartment. _Their_ apartment. 

Christ, he doesn’t know if he can stop this. 

And there’s Steve’s voice in his head again. 

Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. 

First things first though… 

[ _Heimkehr._ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)

* * *

There is lead in his belly and the few steps that lead up onto the porch seem almost insurmountable. He makes them though, his hand shaking when he raises it to knock on the door. Someone rips the door open so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t pull it straight off the hinges. 

It’s not Steve though. 

She has on some of Bucky’s old clothes—things that Steve probably pulled out of a box somewhere. Maybe they pulled out all of Bucky’s old things while he was gone. Maybe they looked at them all one-by-one and hoped and hoped. 

Her bottom lip wobbles and he wants it to stop. He wants to reach back in time and grab hold of all those hazy and beautiful fucking dreams. 

“Becca,” he breathes, and she lets out a sob and pulls him into her arms with a fierceness that only their ma could rival. 

Behind her, Steve appears and Christ, he’s so beautiful. Like a dream of thin limbs and blond hair, this man. And those eyes—as fierce and kind and wise as they ever were. Bucky lets go of Rebecca and stumbles toward him. 

“If you knew how hard it was for them to take you out of my head,” Bucky says, practically falling on him. Steve wraps his bony arms around Bucky’s body, fitting against him because, despite all that time and everything that happened, remembering how to slot every curve and angle of their bodies together is second nature. Bucky thinks, even as Hydra’s Soldier, that if he had somehow had cause to hug Steve Rogers, he still would have done it right. 

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” Steve says, and Bucky gets a whiff of him and cannot stop himself from leaning down, from burying his cold nose in Steve’s blond hair and inhaling. 

“I…” Bucky pulls away, trembling and shaking his head. He plops onto the sofa and takes several deep breaths, rubbing his thumb across the corner of his notebook where the paper and cardboard have already started to curl. “I don’t think anybody’s hugged me in a long time.” 

“You can have all the space you need,” Steve says, talking fast like he’s afraid if he doesn’t get it out, Bucky might run again. Bucky nods though, his eyes finding Rebecca again. 

And now, for the even harder part. 

“You work for them? The SSR?”

Rebecca shifts uncomfortably. 

“Becca, this is important.” 

She sighs. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” 

“Becca, Hydra…” Bucky finds the briefcase, unopened and slid into the space between the rickety bookshelf and the radio. “I spent the last two years working for Hydra. They did something to me, reached in and took all the things in my head and mixed ‘em up. They sent me to the SSR to kill Carter, Stark, and Hansen.” Very carefully, he opens the lid of the briefcase. “The war might be over for Germany, but it ain’t over for them, and they’ve been working on something big and terrible and somebody’s gotta know about it.” 

Rebecca stares at the contents of the briefcase and then at him. He watches her eyes go from concerned to determined, and in them he sees that same little girl who was told she couldn’t play with the boys. 

_Like hell I can’t_. 

With a nod, Becca grabs her coat off the back of a chair. “Let’s go then.” 

Bucky closes up the briefcase, and the two of them make it do the door before Becca turns and looks back at Steve. 

“What?” Steve asks. 

Becca sighs dramatically and glances at Bucky. “‘What?’ he asks. Do you see what I’ve had to deal with while you’ve been gone? ‘What?’ Honestly.” She turns her attention back on Steve. “The love of your life just returned from the dead and said we have to save the world from rogue Nazis and you ask, ‘What?’”

“I don’t have clearance anymore,” Steve says. 

“When the hell have rules ever stopped you?” Becca asks. 

Watching Steve scramble for a jacket, Bucky can’t help the faint smile that tugs at his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky sings is [Blue Yodel No. 1 by Jimmie Rodgers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEIBmGZxAhg) released in 1927. I don't think this was Bucky's musical style at all (or even his parents'), so in my opinion, this was a childhood ear worm he personally hated a little bit and then there, in his time of great need, of all the songs that he ever listened to, this is the one his brain decides to remember... 
> 
> He will laugh about this later, I think.
> 
> Thank you again for sticking with this story (or for reading this far if you just found it). It has been a journey for me and for Bucky and co. I'm glad even one person likes it, let alone several. <3


	13. Thirteen

> _September 15, 1927,_
> 
> _Mrs. Sarah Rogers,_
> 
> _It seems as though our children have recently become acquainted. I believe you and I have met before at the church, but as I have now heard my James mention a ‘Steve Rogers’ at least three times and have even heard my daughter, Rebecca, speak of him, I believe it is time we get to know each other better._
> 
> _I would like to formally invite you and Steve to dinner this Sunday after mass. I understand you work as a nurse and may not be available, especially on short notice. As such, consider this a standing invitation for the next Sunday you have off._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Winifred Barnes_

**November 1945**

Steve feels like he’s sleepwalking. It’s November, and there’s a nip in the air that numbs the tip of his nose and makes his bones ache, but he barely notices the chill, and the pain settles even more into the background than usual.

Bucky is alive. It still hasn’t set into Steve’s brain as something real and tangible. Alive, alive, alive. Bucky walks ahead of Steve and behind Becca, the three of them forming a single-file line on the sidewalk like a gaggle of schoolchildren. At every street crossing, Bucky glances back at him with a smile that shifts through a spectrum of tender-pained-scared-confused and back again. Steve smiles back with his own unique rotation of emotions.

The rest of the time, he watches Bucky’s body. His movements are different. There used to be an easiness to his limbs, a looseness in his muscles that matched his easy smiles. Now the smiles seem harder for him, and he walks with a different kind of fluidity.

Prowls, Steve realizes. Like a tiger pacing in its cage, Bucky prowls. Every movement is calculated and purposeful. By the fifth or sixth smile, Steve finds a purpose in those too. With each one, Bucky first looks Steve over, then scans the sidewalk behind and beside him.

“Are you looking for someone?” Steve asks, and Bucky glances back at him again.

“Never know,” Bucky says, and his eyes leave Steve’s and dart once more around their surroundings.

Each block seems longer than the last. Whether he’s concerned about Bucky or not, Steve still lives for those backwards glances. Every time he finds himself staring at the back of Bucky’s neck, he feels like he’s back in one of the many dreams and nightmares he had over the past two years. Once or twice, he expects Bucky to turn around and have someone else’s face. Or for bombs to start raining down on New York.

But there is only Bucky—the change in his movements, in his face, and in his hair and body are all strange sources of comfort. Steve dreamed Bucky plenty, but he never dreamed him different.

Too caught up in cataloging, it takes Steve until they are three blocks from the antique ship to realize he’s shaking. He pauses in his step and holds up one of his hands, using the sidewalk as a steady background to gauge its movements. Bucky seems to notice almost instantly that he’s no longer following, all at once halting and pivoting so smoothly that Steve can imagine a dozen folks at a dance hall swooning on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, before his eyes fall to Steve’s trembling hand. Without a thought, Bucky goes to pat his shirt pocket, then frowns. “Do you need—”

“I’ve got it,” Steve says, digging into his own pocket where he finds the roll of butterscotch candies and pops one into his mouth. “I’m okay.”

“Five minutes, Becca,” Bucky says, pulling Steve over to the stoop of a building. “C’mon, Steve, sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Glad to know I can fight a whole war, get captured and brainwashed, and personally kill Hitler, but some things will still never change,” Bucky says. “Saving the world is urgent and all, Steve, but if it’s gonna end in the next five minutes, then we’re probably too late anyhow. Sit.”

Steve sinks onto the step, candy clicking against his teeth while he blinks at Bucky. “Did you just say…?”

Bucky shrugs and takes the spot next to him, his eyes continuing to scan the world from the sidewalk to the roofs. “Killed some other important Nazis too. Guess it’s like the old saying goes. Even a broken Nazi clock is right twice in a war.”

“Ah yes, that would be one of Great Aunt Ethel’s famous proverbs.” Becca leans against the stoop’s concrete railing. “Bucky, I don’t want you to think for a moment that I’m not so overjoyed to have you back that I could climb up on that roof over there and shout about it for all of Brooklyn to hear, but this is all so very strange.”

Bucky starts something like a laugh, but it dies so abruptly that Steve’s stomach drops. Steve looks over at him and finds that his eyes, the ones that have spent the past half hour tracking every movement in the city, have stopped to stare straight ahead. Bucky barely even blinks.

“Then I’m sorry, Becca,” Bucky says. “Because it’s about to get stranger.”

Steve doesn’t notice the man approaching from the left until he steps off the nearest crosswalk. He’s pale with dark hair, wearing a gray suit and a tie, an umbrella swinging to and fro while he walks. Steve would have thought nothing of him if he didn’t have his eyes intensely focused on Bucky, an almost hunger in the way he looks at him. Bucky keeps staring straight ahead. 

“Bucky, who is that?” Becca asks.

“You don’t know him? You haven’t seen him around the SSR?”

“No, should I have?”

“Steve? You never forget a face.”

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“Don’t get involved,” Bucky says, sliding the handle of the briefcase into Steve’s hand before casually tucking his own hands inside the opposite sleeves of his jacket.

“Yeah, sure,” Becca stands up straight. 

“Rebecca, I mean it,” Bucky hisses, and a few moments later, the man is upon them.

“Good afternoon,” he says, and the German accent is impossible to miss even before he switches to speaking the language, his eyes meeting Bucky’s and no one else’s. In his periphery, Steve watches Becca tense. The man speaks rapidly, and Steve catches almost nothing, but he does get two words: “Hydra” and “Soldat.” His fist clenches at his side.

Bucky’s first response is easy enough to understand. “Nein.” The man keeps talking.

Bucky’s second response is a little less easy to discern. “[Ich bin mein eigener Herr.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)”

The man begins a string of German words, a list of some kind, punctuated by pauses. He gets all of three out before Bucky leaps up off the stoop, a knife glinting in one hand. With a frustrated grunt, the man narrowly avoids a slash across the gut. In turn, Bucky narrowly avoids a whack across the face with the umbrella.

“Stand down, Soldier.”

“[Leck mich am Arsch!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455059)” Bucky jabs with the knife, and the man presses a button that both unfurls the umbrella and releases it from the shaft, forcing Bucky to bat it away. By the time he has, the man has produced a gun from inside his jacket. He still holds the umbrella handle—a hidden blade—in the other hand.

Heart picking up speed, Steve moves on instinct before Becca grabs him by the wrist and yanks him back, tugging him away from the fight and behind a parked automobile. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve asks, Becca’s hand shifting to take hold of the back of his jacket and force him into a duck.

“You’re the strategist, Steve. You tell me.”

Ahead, the fight continues, and in it Steve finds even more changes in Bucky. Bucky had always been a decent fighter—a welterweight champion even. But the fighting he’s doing now is different. Where his moves before were precise for a human body, his moves now are almost mechanical in their precision. It’s like watching a choreographed dance the way Bucky and this stranger meet each other blow for blow. Twice, the man attempts to get a shot off. Twice, Bucky misdirects his aim, forcing the bullet into the sidewalk and into the side of a different parked car.

Nearby, onlookers scream and run and call for someone to get the police.

The third time the gun goes off, Bucky lets out a growl of pain and Becca’s fist tightens in the fabric on the back of Steve’s jacket. Bucky keeps moving though, not faltering even when it’s apparent he must be hurting.

“Take this,” Steve says, trying to pass the briefcase off to her.

“Steve, stop and think for a second.”

“He needs help.” Steve attempts to push it into her arms yet again, but she won’t take it.

“Steve, that fella has a gun.”

“I know!”

“Steve.”

Practically bursting out of his skin with frustration, Steve watches Bucky dodge a swipe of a knife. How does she expect him to just sit here? How? Steve puts the briefcase on the ground and stands up.

“Hey!” he yells, even while Becca hisses at him.

Face blank, Bucky lunges at the guy, forcing him to jump back to avoid the knife. That's the moment when the guy turns and looks right at Steve, pivoting on his heels and running right at him and Becca.

In an instant, Becca has Steve by the collar, dragging him out into the street, the two of them dodging vehicles like a pair of wayward squirrels.

Cars honk and careen. Steve and Becca make it to the opposite sidewalk just in time to see Bucky catch up with their pursuer. In the middle of traffic, Bucky crashes into him, pushing his shoulders right into the guy’s waist. He upends the stranger into the path of an oncoming car, the wheels bouncing over him one set after the other.

“Oh God,” Becca breathes.

It should end there. Part of Steve’s mind has already filled in the image of Bucky sprinting their way. But Bucky doesn't sprint their way. Instead he kneels down and makes sure there's no way the guy will get up again. Next to him, Steve hears Becca retch once. When Bucky finally does join them, he won’t look at them. There’s blood on his shirt.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he says.

“I wish I hadn’t.” Becca reaches out and grabs his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “But I’m not sorry for one goddamned second that you did it.”

“I’m not either, Buck,” Steve says, offering him back the briefcase, his hands already going to Bucky’s injured leg. But it looks as though it was just a graze, the blood already clotted and beginning to form a scab. “He…” Steve shakes his head. “He was trying to take you back, wasn’t he? He was with them?”

“Yeah. What they did to me up here…” Bucky points at his head. “There’s these words they can say that’ll make me do whatever they want.” He shakes his head. “I can’t go back. I won’t.” 

Steve opens his mouth to say something else when Bucky glances down the road and grabs their arms, steering them away. It takes a few more seconds for him to understand—the sirens finally audible to him as well.

They don’t stop walking until they can see the antique shop. At the crosswalk, Steve steps up to Bucky’s side and presses in close. “I mean it, Buck. I’m not sorry you did it, and I never will be.”

By the time they cross the street, one of the guards has already pushed himself off of his black car. He stares at them, a cigarette held loosely in his hand. Becca does her best to wave casually, as though there’s a way to be casual with Bucky looking like a murderer on the loose. She keeps going though, pulling open the door to the shop and stepping inside.

“They say we might get snow soon.”

“Ah hell, they’ve changed it and I wasn’t—” Becca starts, but the old woman has already reached below the counter and produced a massive gun. Before Steve can even process this, Bucky steps in front of them, his arms held wide, the briefcase dangling from one set of rust-stained fingers.

“Don’t shoot anybody,” he says, tensing when the guard steps inside and aims a gun at the three of them from another direction. Steve shifts to block Becca the best he can.

“No sudden moves,” the guard says, and Bucky nods. Weapon still trained on them, the old woman moves to pick up the receiver of a telephone, muttering into it.

“Listen, I know you all are looking for me, and I know why. I'll tell you everything I know and can remember, but I need to talk to someone important. Carter. Hansen. Somebody at the top. This is life and death.”

“Put down the briefcase,” the guard says. “Now.”

Bucky calmly sets it on the floor. “What’s in it is highly dangerous. Please don’t let anybody handle it before I explain.”

“And what exactly would you be explaining?” a woman asks, emerging from behind the curtain with yet another gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a historical note on the contents of this chapter, but in writing it, I found out that Mozart wrote a song called ["Leck mich im Arsch"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leck_mich_im_Arsch) and it was believed to be a party song for his friends. So next time someone near you is pearl-clutching about WAP and the vulgarity of modern music... a;sldkfj
> 
> Anyway, many thanks to everyone who is continuing to read and who has made their way here over the past couple weeks. We're in the home stretch and I can't wait for y'all to read it.


	14. Fourteen

> _November 17, 1944_
> 
> _Jacques,_
> 
> _I got the cake. It held up pretty well considering how far it had to go. I gotta say I can’t believe you can bake and didn’t once try to whip us up a cake in the trenches. Don’t ask me where we’d have got the flour, but necessity is the mother of invention and all that, and given that I once saw you make a bomb out of the contents of a man’s footlocker, I think you could have handled it._
> 
> _Since you asked, there is somebody in a manner of speaking. I’ve got my eye on a girl, and I think by some miracle, she might have her eye on me too. I don’t know how. She’s a real special gal, and it feels like the only people who should even be allowed to think of courting her are folks who sing on the radio or star in pictures. A real spitfire too, the kind of woman who sees a door closed in her face and decides to break a window._
> 
> _My sister is doing well (ate half that cake!). My folks have moved up here to the city to be closer to us, so even though the war is still raging, our spirits are high enough. Given everything we went through over there, I’ll take a little quiet._
> 
> _Keep in touch, my friend. Feel free to send more baked goods if you need somebody to take them off your hands. As always, I’m including the same letter in French, but based on your latest, I think you’re about as much of an English speaker as I am a French speaker._
> 
> _Your friend,_
> 
> _Gabe Jones_

**November 1945**

As a boy, Bucky always held a fear of Judgment Day. There were reassurances—he had been baptized after all. But there was always that lingering doubt. What if he messed up so bad that he got Judged anyhow? Made to stand up in front of God and everybody with all his sins and worst thoughts laid bare?

He imagines it would’ve been something like this.

The first thing they do is separate him from Steve and Becca. Steve and Becca both put up a fight at that one, but he tells them to go, because right now he needs things to be calm. He needs to be as nonthreatening as he possibly can, so that maybe somebody actually listens to him. The deaths he caused weigh on him and he knows nothing can undo the unmaking of a human life, but in his head, he can see a set of scales—one side weighed down with all that Hydra made him do. He needs to add something to the other side, even if he can never ever properly balance them.

So he lets Margaret Carter personally handcuff him to a metal chair under the watchful eyes of half a dozen armed folks. After, they leave him alone in what seems to be some kind of conference room. He waits.

And Christ, the waiting eats at him. There had been a time during the worst of the ‘30s when Steve was sick and even Ma and Pa were barely scraping by, when Bucky had lost his job and was picking up rare odd work around the neighborhood. At one point, all Steve and Bucky had left between them was a singular potato. They made themselves wait until the need became a gnawing thing in their bellies, and by then, they were so hungry that waiting for the water to heat up first had seemed impossible. So they put the single potato in the bottom of a pot on the stove and sat at the table together, Bucky weakly holding onto Steve’s shaking hands.

He feels like that potato now—alone in a too-big pot, waiting for the water to boil.

He could break the cuffs. He’s fairly sure that he could. Carter has no idea what Zola did to him. Even Schneider always focused on training when it came to physicality—speed and agility and accuracy. Strength was an afterthought that they only explored in passing.

He doesn’t break the cuffs. He passes the time letting his thoughts flow. It occurs to him that both his fear of Judgment and the potato are memories he just pulled back out of the depths of whatever vault Hydra locked them into. He wants to write them down.

Time moves like a sluggish thing, or maybe it really has been all the hours upon hours it seems it has. Bucky pulls up the same memories again and again just to make sure he still has them. Childhood fear. Hunger. Then he keeps going. The man in France. Janosi. Lipnicki. Angelo. Kaplan. Peterson. Hot hot days in North Africa. Confessing to Steve by his sickbed and, oh, what a sweet innocent thing they’d had then.

Dugan, Falsworth, Dernier,

“Morita.” At first, Bucky thinks the face looking through the glass in the door is some kind of trick of his memory, like the afterimage of the sun burned onto his retinas and brought back again with every blink. But the man staring at him is different than the fella in his head—missing all his facial hair except for a thin Zachary Scott mustache. 

“Jim,” Bucky says, even though he knows he can’t hear him. Morita blinks and shuts his eyes too tight, blinks again. He pulls open the door and steps inside.

“Sarge?”

Bucky starts to answer, but apparently (obviously) there were guards stationed outside, and one of them has followed Morita in. She puts her hand on his arm.

“Carter said no one in or out until she gets back.”

There is an internal war written on Morita’s face, his gaze going back and forth between her and Bucky. Bucky gives his head the smallest shake.

“I’ll be back, Sarge,” Morita says, “and with a friend at that.”

When Carter returns, Morita is with her. And as promised… 

“Sarge, if we’d known. Hell, if we’d even thought.” Jones looks Bucky over, clearly taking in the blood and the healing gash on his leg and trying to decide if he needs to help do anything about it. “If we’d—”

“You didn’t know, Jones,” Bucky says. “How the hell could you have? The other fellas never came back.”

“We lost Janosi in the escape,” Morita says, and Bucky looks down at the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“So are we, but everyone else made it out.” Jones slides into a chair like an entire would-be tribunal is not looming behind him. “We just got together in London after the war, you know? Me and Jim, Dum-Dum, Dernier, Falsworth. Raised a glass to you and Janosi, Minetti and Lowery and everybody else.”

If Bucky closes his eyes, he can very nearly picture it. There would be beer foam stuck in Dugan’s mustache. It’s a good thought.

“Sarge,” Morita says quietly, taking the seat next to Jones. “Sarge, what did Hydra do to you?”

“I guess that’s a question I should answer for everybody,” Bucky raises his eyes beyond Jones and Morita to make eye contact with Carter. She has a folder tucked under her arm, the thick manila card stock stuffed with pages.

“Gentleman, may I?” she asks, and there’s a scraping of chairs as both Jones and Morita rush to shift down the table. Jones though—Bucky has to stifle a snort at the way he looks at Carter. It reminds him of how he looked at Steve when they were young, how he maybe still did before he left for the war, how he maybe still will once he finishes processing.

For a moment, Bucky’s afraid Hydra took that too—his ability to love Steve with every fiber of his being—but no, as fragile and filthy as he feels, that’s still there aching in all the places in his heart where he can possibly fit it, waiting to be pulled out again like a favorite winter coat.

“Thank you, Morita,” Carter says with a nod in his direction. “Gabriel.” Him, she gives a soft smile after she sits down, and oh, okay. Good for you, Jones.

Bucky looks Carter in the eye. On the scratched, scored tabletop, she flips open the folder. A photo of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes stares up at her. That’s the way Bucky’s brain categorizes the man in the picture with the gleam in his eye, instinctively labeling him something formal, as though they are different people.

Or maybe not different exactly. More like Brooklyn and Manhattan—two pieces of one thing, but disconnected. Bucky struggles still with reconstructing the bridge between them. Instead he looks at that gleam like distant lights over the East River, something both familiar and vaguely intangible all at once.

“You were captured by Hydra forces in Azzano?” Carter asks.

“Yes.”

“MIA presumed KIA,” she reads.

“I’m guessing I’m gonna have a hell of a time filling out paperwork once we get through all this.”

Carter looks up at him, resting her hands atop the pages. Her nails are short and well-manicured, but she has calluses on her fingers from firing a gun. He would peg her for a crack shot, especially at close range.

_Skilled in marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat_.

Right.

“And what exactly are we getting through, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky glances at Jones and Morita and inhales.

“When Hydra took us, they took us to a weapons factory and put us all to work,” Bucky says. “They also started taking people out of the cages. Cells. Whatever you wanna call ‘em. They would come get somebody and you’d never see them again.”

Across from him, both Morita and Jones look down at the table. Carter shifts subtly, letting the side of her palm and pinky finger rest against Jones’s hand as though it just happened that way naturally.

“One day, I was the fella they decided to take. They shot me up with all kinds of drug cocktails. Got no idea what was in them, only that they made me different. I’m stronger now. Faster. My brain goes quicker too even after they started poking holes in it. I know because they stuffed me full of so many languages, I don’t even know how many I know.” Bucky focuses on Jones and switches to French. _“It’s so good to see you again_.”

“ _And you_.”

“ _Why exactly would Hydra do that_?” Carter asks, before moving the conversation back to English for the benefit of everyone else gathered in the room. “For what purpose?”

“I have no idea how long it took,” Bucky says. “I can guess from the dates on the calendar, but I don’t know.” He explains the way they hollowed him out, how they used someone he loved against him, how they tricked him and turned him and twisted him up inside. “I’ve killed at least nine people for them that I can remember so far, not all of them in Germany. My next orders were you, Stark, and Hansen.”

If that scares Carter at all, she doesn’t betray it. Not even a flinch. But on the table, Jones’s hand twitches where it lies against hers.

“What’s in the briefcase, Sergeant Barnes?” she asks.

“Something blue,” Bucky says, and Jones and Morita both physically react, Morita squirming and Jones looking at him with wide eyes. “Sometime last year I think, Hydra sent me to assassinate a man in Lyon, so that I could steal a book on something called a tesseract. I think it’s what powered all those weapons we helped make, and now they probably know even more about how it works. I think it might have played a hand in Zola’s drugs too, but I don’t know.”

“These blue weapons fire some kind of energy beam that essentially tears a person apart?” Carter asks.

Jones and Morita both nod grimly while Bucky answers, “Something like that. They didn’t exactly let me read the book.”

Carter nods. “And these blue weapons work like high-powered guns?”

“They did,” Bucky says.

“I can’t say I like the way you said that, Sergeant Barnes.” Carter takes a deep breath and licks her lips. “What exactly do you mean by ‘did’?”

“I mean that briefcase is a small blue bomb, and they had us making a factory’s worth of something bigger.”

“To do what?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s why I need you. I don’t know.”

“Do you know when?” she asks. Another head shake. She sighs and squeezes the bridge of her nose.

“What I do know is where they are,” Bucky says, and he can feel the spark in his eyes. The lights of Manhattan shining bright across the river.

“Esparza, can you get us a map?” Carter asks, turning around to look at a fat brown woman.

“Where do you need?” Esparza asks Bucky.

“Northern Italy. Italian Alps.”

“We’re in the middle of a transition and the war is over,” Carter says. “It would take us at least two weeks to get a quality team together and sent over. I know you said you don’t know, but if you had to guess, Sergeant Barnes, how long do we have?”

“They sent me here because they wanted you out of the way before they did it.” He looks down at the table. “I killed the man they sent to watch me. They probably have an inkling that I’ve slipped their control by now. All of that to say, ma’am, that I would guess sooner rather than later.”

Carter nods, folding the manila folder closed on the tabletop. On either side of her though, Jones and Morita turn to look at each other.

“P— Director Carter,ma’am,” Jones says. “We might know a couple guys overseas who aren’t exactly Hydra’s biggest fans.”

“Yes, I suppose you might.”

Across the table, Morita makes eye contact with Bucky. Twin smiles slowly spread across both of their faces. They are the smiles of soldiers who have seen war. They are the smiles of soldiers who have already kicked a few Nazi teeth in and wouldn’t mind kicking in a few more. Anxious and feral all at once.

“Morita,” Carter says, an edge of sternness to her voice.

“Ma’am?”

“Why are you still here?”

“Ma’am?” he asks again in a slightly different tone.

“You are our new communications director, are you not?”

Morita’s chair scoots across the floor in a quick, loud screech.

“Tell Frenchie to do what he does best,” Bucky calls after him.

“Someone find Stark. We’ll want him to start looking at that briefcase,” Carter says, standing up and walking around the table. “Sergeant Barnes, I am going to let you go only because of the faith that two of my best men have in you. Do not make me shoot you today.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

There’s a large and highly detailed map of North Italy in front of him by the time she frees him. He flexes the tension out of his arms and marks a spot with a small, dark black X. That leaves only one thing that he can think to do in the moment.

“Steve and Becca?”

She nods and leads him to another room where they both sit holding cups of coffee that look as though they went cold hours ago. Steve is the first to notice him, visibly sagging with relief.

“Well?” Steve asks. “What now?”

Bucky shrugs. “I think at least for a little while, it’s out of our hands.”

Carter looks at Rebecca and tilts her head. “Oh, that may not be entirely true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pulls up, tires squealing] Get in. We're getting the gang back together.


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the last piece of art Not_Worms did for this story. I am still forever in my feels that she saw this story in the claims and wanted to do art for it. I don't think this fic ever would've happened without her, and I'm glad she kept me in the game, especially since working hard to finish this up was one of the things that got me through election night. Thank you for the art previews and the advice and for believing in this work. 
> 
> I also want to thank Tans for checking over/helping me with Florence's mini monologue in this chapter.

> _September 14, 1943_
> 
> _Stevie,_
> 
> _Do you remember that one night in January a few years back? There was a blizzard outside howling up a fuss, and the windows couldn’t hold it back. Our radiator was probably worth more as scrap metal (and still is), and here’s all this cold air blowing in through every crack._
> 
> _That was when we started covering the windows with newspapers when we heard there was a storm coming._
> 
> _No blizzards here, but today we walked by a house with newspapers on the windows, and I thought of that winter night and everything we did to keep warm._
> 
> _I wish I had a better way to end this, some nice turn of phrase that ties it all together and makes a decent point. But all I got is I miss you._
> 
> _TTEOTL,_
> 
> _Bucky_

**November 1945**

There was a time one Christmas when Steve stayed late at the Barneses so they could all walk to midnight mass together. There had been a moment on that walk where Steve let his mind wander—the world wandering with it—and in that moment, he had felt like if he just turned his head, he would see his mother there walking beside them.

And then he saw Bucky walking with a sleeping Ruthie in his arms and remembered she was the baby of the family and, unlike the rest of the Barneses, had never gotten to meet Sarah Rogers.

Being in a conference room in the SSR (SHIELD, some are calling it now) is a little like that—past and present folding on top of one another and melting like layers of butter.

Esparza is here. Florence Jones is here. Morita and Becca—neither of them were on their team, but both had been in and out of their meetings enough that he can reconcile them. Bucky though, he doesn’t fit in the part of Steve’s brain that remembers those long and anxious days. Neither does Gabe Jones. And yet, here they all are, spread around pages of decoded messages Becca pulled from a large cabinet. There are stacks upon stacks of them, some piles thick as Bibles.

“We were hearing some strange chatter before the war ended,” Becca says, flipping through pages. “We thought it was code on top of code. Some other folks from down the hall were trying to figure it all out, but then the war was over and no one thought it mattered much anymore.” She pulls a page. “‘The Red Skull will rise on the wings of a Valkyrie. Toeholds will become footholds, and many heads will climb until the world is at their feet.’” She glances up at Bucky. “Mean anything to you?”

Steve knows the answer in the way the pink of Bucky’s cheeks has fallen away like autumn leaves.

“SSR know anything about Hydra’s own Hitler with no face?” Bucky asks.

“We know about Johann Schmidt,” Esparza suggests.

“Hold on,” Gabe says. There’s more rooting around in a cabinet, and he produces a file folder similar to the one Carter managed to scrounge up on Bucky. He flips open the page, removing a picture of a white man with shrewd eyes and a pointed chin.

Bucky shakes his head and plucks a red grease pencil from a cup on the table, twirling it between his fingers. “That’s him, but it also ain’t.”

“What do you mean?” Florence asks.

“Whatever Hydra gave me, they gave it to him first. It changed him. He might’ve looked like that before, but…” Bucky takes the photo and starts to attack it with the pencil and his fingers, drawing and smudging and drawing and smudging, until Schmidt’s face disappears beneath lines of red. “I’m no Steve Rogers and these aren’t art pencils, but this is a lot closer to the truth.”

“‘The Red Skull will rise on the wings of the Valkyrie,’” Becca murmurs.

“Valkyrie’s what they call it. Project Valkyrie. They made me forget a lot of things, but that they hammered in there—how important it was, that it would mean Hydra moving closer to its goal. Anytime I forgot about it, they made sure I remembered again.”

“About that, Sarge,” Morita says. “They split from Hitler and they weren’t exactly inviting us to red light meetings in Kreischberg. So what is Hydra’s goal?”

In an instant, Bucky’s eyes go blank. Goosebumps crawl down Steve’s arms, because it’s like something reached in and pulled Bucky’s soul right out of his body.

“There are nine key tenets to the Hydra philosophy,” Bucky says, his tone flat and measured. “People cannot be trusted to rule themselves. Mankind is like a plant, contaminated by rot that must be cut away. For too long—”

“Bucky,” Steve says.

“—inferior beings have been allowed to—”

“Bucky!” Steve grabs his arm. Bucky flinches like someone stabbed him, blinking at Steve several times. Steve watches the light slowly flood back in, holding Bucky’s gaze until he actually sees him in it, his heart giving a small thud when he recognizes the person looking back at him.

Bucky shakes his head and rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He reaches for Steve’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around it, feeling for Steve’s pulse like he used to when they were younger and Steve would get bad sick. Bucky takes a deep breath.

“They want what assholes like them always want, whether they’re Hitler or the folks who used to hold rallies here in the city and pass out pamphlets on the corners. They want everyone who is different than they are to either go away or fall at their feet. And they want the rest of us to help them do it or stand aside.” Bucky grips the edge of the table, his jaw clenching. “And if they have to kill millions of people to get the world to agree to let them remake it in whatever goddamned image they want, then so be it.”

Bucky looks down at the tabletop, and everyone else takes a moment to process the fact that the end of such a big war doesn’t somehow spell eternal peace. Steve moves first, pulling a stack of pages toward him.

“So,” Steve says, “if the stuff about Red Skull checks out, then there’s a chance there might be something else in this that can help us put an end to it. I’ve dealt with guys like Hydra my whole life. Little Steve Rogers—sickly and worthless. Can’t hold a steady job. Not worth marrying. A drain on society.” Steve scans the first page and turns it. “But you know what I’ve learned after twenty-seven years? Power comes from people deciding that you have it. Ideals only take hold when people don’t challenge them. And everybody bleeds.”

Steve reaches over and puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to give it a grounding squeeze.

“I’ve had run-ins with guys like this too,” Florence says, taking a stack of her own. “The war started and people wanted to pretend all of a sudden like we don’t have Nazis in our own backyard. I’ve been waiting and working my whole life to see this world remade, and I’ll be damned if I helped defeat one festering evil to let another one take root, especially how they’re planning to do it.”

“Well then,” Esparza says, heading for the door. “Why don’t we get a few more eyes on this?”

She brings others, the room filling with people who get crash courses in Hydra-speak and their own stacks of pages. It reminds Steve of the propaganda reels they used to play before the pictures—production lines for the war effort. Everybody has a job. Read, flip, sort, and then pass it all to Bucky so he can read and sort it again.

And so it goes for hours, the clock on the wall ticking well past midnight while people trade yawns like tennis serves.

“I don’t like this,” Bucky says sometime around one in the morning. He leafs through a stack of papers all pulled from the others. (Steve doesn’t envy the person who will eventually have to put them all back in order for filing.)

“What is it, Bucky?” Becca asks, craning her neck. On the table, Bucky spreads out different pages, all of them marked up with a red fountain pen.

“Some of these,” Bucky says, glancing at a stack he set aside, “I think are from Germany proper, probably intended targets if they ever got the chance. But these, the way they’re phrased.” He picks up a sheet and reads. “‘Like the great fires of Vesuvius, we will make her our Pompeii. Her great shining towers will fall beneath our wrath, and she will sleep at last.’”

No one has to ask.

“I was hoping you’d discount that one somehow,” Esparza says quietly.

“Guess we should have expected it,” Morita says. “Who declares war on the entire world and ignores New York?”

“That ain’t all.” Bucky leafs through more pages. “Los Angeles. I’m pretty sure this one’s London. This one might be DC. Maybe Philly or Boston.” Bucky sits up and grips the edge of the table again. Steve watches his knuckles go white and wishes he could reach out and take Bucky’s hand and hold it until everything is over. He settles for giving Bucky’s forearm a squeeze.

Without a word, Esparza gets up and leaves the room. When she comes back, she enlists Becca and Morita to help her fit a map into the clear holder still mounted to the wall. There sits the world, outlined in greens and browns and blues. Picking up the red grease pencil Bucky used to color the Red Skull red, she puts X’s on New York and London. In blue, she dots DC, Boston, and Philadelphia. The definites and the maybes.

“No one in this room’s a stranger to dealing with conflict,” Esparza says, smoothing some of her dark hair back where the hours have loosened it. “Some of you fought in the war directly. Some of you fought in these halls. Some of you have the honor of having done both. Just as there were before, there are people over there doing their parts. Just as before, we’ll do everything we can to help them from here. We’ll go over this information we have until we feel like we might be sick if we ever have to see it again. And then we’ll keep going, because that is what we have done and what we still must do.”

And at that, she sits back down and begins anew. Somehow, they all do the same. It’s nearly dawn when they finally finish the first round.

“Morita, Sharma, Azubuike, Hardy, and Ms. Jones, go home and sleep. Back at noon.” Esparza turns her attention to Steve and Becca. “One of you too. We’ll need Sergeant Barnes for as long as he can possibly stand.”

Steve finds Becca’s eyes across the table, pleading with her.

“I’ll go,” she says, standing up.

“Becca.” Bucky reaches for her wrist. “Don’t tell them. I have no idea how to come back from the dead, but I think it should be in person.”

Becca nods and leans down to hug him, squeezing him tight against her.

“You are real, aren’t y— Ow!” Becca pulls away from Bucky rubbing her arm before hauling back and punching him in the shoulder. “You try to have one loving moment with your stupid undead brother and—”

“I’m real, Becca,” Bucky says softly. “I’m as real as every skinned knee you got playing ball and every smudge you left on my books. I’m as real as Ma’s cooking and Pa’s laugh. As real as Janie and Ruthie cheating at cards and board games. Go get some sleep.”

She hugs him again and grabs Steve for good measure. And then she follows the others out the door.

* * *

Someone brings in breakfast, and Steve slips into the bathroom to test his sugar and do a shot from the tiny metal case in his pocket. Back at the table, he watches jealously while everyone drinks coffee in an attempt to perk up. His heart always tries to run right out of his chest when he has that much caffeine.

A little after nine, Steve falls asleep for just a second, waking himself when his body starts to pitch toward the table. That’s when Bucky pushes his chair back.

“Steve and I are taking five.”

“I can’t let you go alone, you understand?” Esparza says casually.

“More the merrier. Jones work for you?” Bucky jerks his head toward Gabe. 

Gabe looks up, his eyes a little wild and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Esparza yawns down at her papers. “Jones is fine.”

The three of them set out on a walk down the hallway, just stretching their legs. Steve feels a bit like his limbs have grown in the past few hours and are now too big for his body, gravity tugging them toward the floor with every step.

But he isn’t nodding off anymore, which is an improvement.

“Show me somewhere you liked when you worked here,” Bucky suggests. Steve rubs at his eyes but nods, leading Bucky and Gabe through the labyrinthine underground tunnels until they reach what has always felt like the center point to Steve. He’d have to see blueprints to know for sure, but there’s something about the place that holds that sort of gravitational pull.

The hallways that don’t require additional clearance all end here and open up on a large circular space. The voices in the building fade and meld together until they form a gentle humming undercurrent, speckled through with the sound of short heels clacking against the tile and dress shoes thudding softly. There are benches on the lower level, one each against the large columns that help support the upper floor. Steve leans on the railing and looks down at them.

“I used to eat there sometimes,” Steve says. “On the days when things were quieter and we weren’t all sitting in a room waiting for news.”

“I always liked it here too.” Gabe leans on the railing on Bucky’s other side, his jaw quivering before he can’t fight it anymore and his mouth parts to suck in a big, slow breath. “Kind of like sitting down at Grand Central and watching everybody go by.”

“Close your eyes,” Steve says softly. Bucky’s eyelids flutter shut and there he is. There’s the boy Steve fell in love with before he even understood what that meant. Bucky’s reaction starts out soft, with the smoothing of all his features as the sounds of the building hit him like a balm. Then comes the slight rise of Bucky’s eyebrows, the low hum of appreciation.

It’s almost like a sense memory, watching this. In his mind, Steve sees Bucky on the sofa, the voice on the radio announcing a brand new tune. If Steve focuses only on Bucky’s face, he can see him there in his boxers and undershirt and newly darned socks, closing his eyes so that the first time he hears the song, he can fully absorb it with no distractions.

If given a few days, Steve knows Bucky would have the rhythm of the SSR memorized, ready to translate every beat into the steps of one of his favorite dances.

“Shit, is it noon yet?” Gabe asks, and Bucky opens his eyes and gives Steve a soft smile before nudging Gabe with his elbow.

“Buck up, Jones. We’ve been through worse.”

“Yeah, past tense. I’ve _been_ through it. Shouldn’t have to go through it again.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Shit, Sarge.” Gabe shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Mean to what?” Bucky asks with a slight smile, patting Gabe’s shoulder affectionately. “Guess we should get back.”

Just outside the door to the conference room, after Gabe has gone in ahead of them, Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand and lets their fingers twine together for one brief moment.

“Your hands are cold,” Bucky says, in the same tone of voice that someone might say, “I _can’t believe that old place is still there after all these years._ ”

* * *

Steve doesn’t even bother going home at noon. He crashes on a cot in someone’s old office—now half-filled with boxes. He feels like he just put his head down when someone knocks softly on the door. The clock on the wall says it’s been six hours.

“Yeah?”

Bucky comes in with a tray of food. “Didn’t want you to miss dinner. Plus it always tastes better when somebody else paid for it. With the exception of rations and Hydra slop.”

“They let you out on your own?”

“Morita’s eating in the hall.” Bucky shrugs, then starts arranging packed moving boxes into some semblance of a table before sitting on the floor on one side. “I need a break from…” He pulls a few dishes to his side. “Thinking.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Berlin.” Bucky shrugs. “Irony isn’t dead, I guess. And we got word that Falsworth and Dernier slipped into Northern Italy with the team they threw together. They’ll be radio silent until it’s over, one way or another.”

“You know them too? Falsworth and Dernier?”

“I do. Met Falsworth on the campaign through Italy. I think I met Dernier while Hydra was marching us from Italy to Austria, but I was sick out of my mind then. First memory I have of him is from when they killed Lohmer.”

“Who?”

“Right…” Bucky shakes his head and takes a bite of his sandwich, chuckling quietly. He looks up at Steve. “Do what you need to. I’ll tell you when you get back.”

Steve leaves to test his sugar again. Back in the room, he pulls the tiny metal case from his pocket.

“Do you want me to…?” Bucky asks, putting down the sandwich and wiping his hands.

“It’ll save me from counting on my fingers.” Steve hands him the case and tells him his sugar, remembers Bucky memorizing the scales when he was newly diagnosed at thirteen, how fast he could calculate up the number of units Steve would need.

“You’re gonna need a refill before breakfast.”

“Yeah.” Steve untucks his shirt and works down the back of his pants. He flinches when Bucky sticks him.

“And your needle sharpened,” Bucky scolds, and Steve snorts through his nose.

“I can’t believe I survived two years without you up my ass.”

“You wanna rephrase that, pal?” Bucky asks, and they both laugh and sit down at the cardboard table.

“So…” Steve takes a bite. “Lohmer?” And Bucky shakes his head.

“Christ, I can’t believe nearly dying of pneumonia while my friends plotted a murder is one of my good memories now.” And then he tells the story. By the end, Steve feels like he knows all the men who are at least partially responsible for Bucky still sitting in front of him, and he has a brand new appreciation for Gabe and Morita.

They finish their dinner quietly after that.

“I keep thinking of a day in, I think ’37 or ’38,” Bucky says. “I had all those odd jobs I’d do around the neighborhood, you know? And usually I’d do one or two in a day depending on what they were, but I got some wires crossed in my head and ended up taking on four. Didn’t wanna turn any of them down or try to reschedule because I was scared they’d just get somebody else, so I got up before the sun was out.”

“I remember that. It was midnight before you crawled home.”

“Yeah, scrubbing an old shop clean so they could sell it. I remember sectioning it off in my head so I could do one part at a time, and I was on the last of it and so tired I could barely stand, but I kept thinking about how it would be over soon.” Bucky gets quieter, unconsciously leaning toward Steve’s better-hearing ear. “Over soon, over soon, over soon. I must’ve thought it a thousand times. It’d be over soon and I could crawl home to you and sleep. No jobs lined up for the next morning, so I could lay around day if I wanted.”

Steve starts to speak, but Bucky isn’t done.

“I keep wondering if it can be that simple now. If this can be like that one last job and after it’s done, I can…”

“Of fucking course you can. Christ, Bucky.” Steve tries to stop it, but he can’t. His voice wavers. “I know you went through hells I can’t even imagine, and I wouldn’t even try to compare how it was for you with how it was for me. But it felt like every day, I’d wake up with pieces of me missing. I dreamed about you so many times, and then I’d open my eyes and you’d be gone and it would ache and ache, like some part of me had been scooped out all over again and would never be put back right. But you’re not gone. My whole life I’ve been told I’m a miracle by the people who care enough to say it—born too early while Ma was in the hospital, survived having the priest called again and again. But you, Buck, you’re _my_ miracle. I wish I could undo every single thing that happened between when we said goodbye and now, but you’re here and if you wanna come back, then I’m gonna hold on. I’m gonna hold on with both hands as tight as I can, and if anybody ever wants to take you away again, they’re gonna have to do what pneumonia and rheumatic fever and all the goddamned bullies of Brooklyn, New York never could because loving you, Buck—I could do it all damned day and nothing’s gonna change that.”

On top of the would-be table, Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand, but Bucky shakes his head. With one arm, he easily pushes the stack of heavy boxes aside, the cardboard moving across the floor with a quiet swish.

“I haven’t done this in two and a half years, so sorry if it’s terrible,” Bucky says hoarsely, taking Steve’s face in his hands. He leans in slowly—uncertain and shaky. Time melts and pools and stretches like taffy all at once.

Finally. Finally.

“Me neither,” Steve whispers, and then he closes his eyes like Bucky hearing a song for the first time, focusing on the soft brush of Bucky’s lips against his.

The kiss is quiet and tame, Bucky almost immediately pulling back with the briefest nuzzle of his forehead against Steve’s. But if it takes Bucky fifty years to be able to kiss Steve like he used to, then Steve will wait. Oh, _Chris_ t, he will fucking wait.

“Your hands are cold,” Bucky says, his eyes still closed. And while he breathes through whatever he’s feeling, he covers Steve’s hands with his own.

* * *

They’re nearing two days of poring over the same documents—Cairo or Istanbul possibly, Tokyo definitely—when someone barges into the conference room waving a sheet of paper. Morita ends up with it, probably because the person from the communications team recognizes him.

Morita scans it, then begins reading so fast he trips over more than a few words. “Mission successful. Arnim Zola captured and being interrogated. Found the book. Red Skull escaped. D blew the place sky high.” Morita looks at Bucky. “For Sarge.”

* * *

It feels like Normandy all over again, the buzzing energy of the room and the way nobody can focus. They all keep reading, though they’ve pretty much bled the information dry. It’s just something to do to pass the hours while Falsworth and Dernier and their friends do whatever they’re doing.

They were supposed to start another off shift—a group of them leaving to sleep—but no one even tries to go. Instead they all sit, turning pages, discussing the information they have and trying to figure out if this one clue really means it’ll be X instead of Y.

Finally, after an agonizing five hours and twenty-four minutes, someone shoves another page into Morita’s hands. He scans this one and then says only, “Fuck.”

“What is it?” Esparza asks.

Morita reads through the message again. “ _Fuck_.”

Florence is the closest to him. She plucks the paper from his hand and reads it, takes a deep breath.

“The failure of ‘The Fist of Hydra’ moved up the schedule,” she says. “They’re already here.”

“Here meaning?” Gabe asks.

“ _Here_. New York.”

“And the other targets?” Esparza is already out of her chair.

“Are a lot easier to threaten when you’ve wiped an entire city right off the map.” Florence holds up the message. “Or that’s the short version of it anyway.” 

“How long?” Bucky asks. 

“Estimate was a few days, but once they get word that we’re onto them?” Florence shakes her head. “Who the hell knows?”

Bucky grabs the nearest sheet of paper and turns it over, scribbling quickly on the back before sliding it toward Esparza. “I know the SSR, SHIELD, whatever, doesn’t trust me yet, but this is what I need if I’m even gonna try.”

She picks it up and reads, her eyebrows going up multiple times. “Well, I’ll have to get approval, but I suppose that’s doable.”

“I reckon Gabe and I will need a couple things too, ma’am,” Morita says.

“Me too,” Becca chimes, and Bucky turns on her.

“Hell no,” he says. “Hell. No.”

But Florence is already saying, “And me,” and it’s Gabe’s turn to protest. Neither one of the girls seems to give a damn.

“You should know better than to think I’m gonna sit around with my thumb up my ass when this much is at stake, Gabriel Frederick Jones.”

Shaking his head, Gabe relents. Bucky clearly doesn’t like it, but Becca has that same look on her face she used to get when someone told her girls couldn’t run fast enough to play ball, and he knows better than to think he can change her mind. That only leaves…

“I know you want me out of this,” Steve says, finding Bucky’s eyes, “but I already told you how it’s gonna be.”

Bucky only shakes his head, giving Steve a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Been asking you our whole lives to stay out of fights. Not even gonna pretend you’d start listening now.”

Florence Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some interesting diabetic history for you - Early glucose monitoring involved testing urine instead of blood, and early kits had a small test tube and alcohol burner. You had to boil a sample of urine and add a chemical agent to observe the reaction. Here's a [series of instructional images](http://amhistory.si.edu/ogmt/images/upload/insulin-and-diabetes-management/sheftel_test_MED.jpg) from a 1942 kit. 
> 
> Bucky's comment about needing his needle sharpened comes from the fact that before disposable needles were invented, reusable needles had to be both disinfected and sharpened. For obvious reasons. 
> 
> Here's what Steve's [insulin case](https://ids.si.edu/ids/deliveryService?id=NMAH-AHB2012q06573) might've looked like.


	16. Sixteen

> _September 21, 1942,_
> 
> _My son,_
> 
> _I do not believe any man who has lived through war ever wants to see his son be called to fight. You will hear many things about war before you actually see fighting. Some of it will be true. Some of it will be only versions of the truth. Some of it will be lies. Not all of these lies will be malicious. Morale is important in men. Hope is what drives us and keeps us going. Hope may very well save your life._
> 
> _I cannot give you wisdom when it comes to how to fight and survive. Many men have attempted to teach such lessons throughout all of history, but in the end, those lessons are always learned on the battlefield. You will make mistakes, but God-willing, you will live to learn from them, and you will not make them again._
> 
> _You will lose men. They will feel like brothers you have always known, and it will hurt in ways the battles do not. I wish I could spare you from this, but I cannot. All I can say is do not guard your heart against such pain. Let them become brothers. Forge friendships and bonds, because at the end of it all, when the dust has settled and the victors have been declared, it is those bonds and the memories they spawn that will ease your battle scars, no matter how deep they run._
> 
> _With all my love and all my prayers,_
> 
> _George Barnes_

**November 1945**

A big group of them ride over to Jersey, sharing a bus with a bunch of moving boxes en route to Camp Lehigh—recently abandoned and transferred to the SSR/SHIELD after the war. The afternoon will be a crash course for the uninitiated, and Bucky hopes it’ll be enough to at least get them through it alive. Because the SSR never had people trained in combat unless they trained for it beforehand or were on loan from the Army, and while they’re working on transitioning into something a little different, the fact of the matter is that the number of people who know how to fight is unsettlingly low.

The number of people who can fight in a way that doesn’t involve trenches and air support? Even lower.

So over the course of a few too-short hours, Bucky does his best to jam as much knowledge about how Hydra fights into everyone’s heads, all while making sure Steve and Becca can at least hit the broad side of a barn at close range.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Florence Jones. Apparently when Gabe said he grew up down south, he meant he grew up _down south,_ hunting rabbits on their grandfather’s farm every fall. So while Florence is no budding sniper, she can handle a gun with semi-decent precision and at least already knows basic safety.

“Either of you ever train at Arzew?” Bucky asks, while he sets up targets and obstacles with Morita and Gabe. 

“Was that the place they set up that whole town and actually shot at us?” Gabe asks.

“Yeah.”

“Sarge, I know you’re a crack shot and all,” Morita says, “but if you shoot at me, I’m probably gonna break your nose.”

Bucky grins at Morita and shoves a few more targets into his arms. “Pal, you could try.”

But Bucky doesn’t shoot at any of them, of course. In Bucky’s opinion, whether you’re trying to miss or not, you should never take a shot at someone you aren’t willing to hurt.

What he does instead is toss pebbles and pinecones and whatever he can get his hands on, getting those who haven’t seen war used to the idea of treating every projectile like it’s dangerous until proven otherwise. He works with Steve and Becca and some of the others at firing short distances, mutters some of the math formulas to Becca and laughs when, of course, her shots start to improve. She won’t get it all in one afternoon, but if it means she can hit a Hydra soldier at five feet instead of four, then he’ll take it.

He works with Morita, Esparza, and both Joneses on some more complicated things. He’s so busy running drills that he almost misses the car driving onto the property. (As if he could miss anything anymore.)

“Who is…”

The man who steps out of the car is slightly paunchy, with red hair and a bushy red mustache. He has on what looks like an assemblage of surplus gear and an honest-to-God bowler hat. When he catches sight of Bucky, he stares in disbelief before shaking his head, an astonished smile breaking wide across his face.

“Dugan, you son of a bitch,” Bucky says.

“I heard something about taking on Hydra, and what do you know, I’ve still got a bit of a score to settle.” Beaming, he strolls over to Bucky and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, slapping him several times on the back. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, Sarge.”

* * *

There is a red light over the door. Bucky hasn’t seen one of those since Algeria, and even then he never actually got to go inside a meeting that warranted one. To his right stands Margaret Carter. To his left stands Colonel Hansen, whom he hasn’t even met until this moment. Stark brings up the rear, babbling about “the very foundation of physics itself.”

The door opens, and a white man in a starched uniform waves them inside. In the room is a round table, the chairs clearly shifted to allow four new seats, situated so closely together that they have to wiggle into them. Bucky sits straight-backed, looking around the table. There are representatives from the armed forces and the Office of Strategic Services—all white men of varying ages. The room itself is dimly lit, turning all those white faces an eerie yellow-gold and casting shadows beneath eyes and noses and bottom lips.

If he was someone else, he supposes the effect might be intimidating.

Carter begins. “It has come to the attention of our agency that the rogue Nazi group known as Hydra is planning an imminent attack on the city.”

“How did you come by that information?” The representative of the OSS is tall and well-built, chiseled jaw clean shaven, dark hair cut neat and slicked back to shine.

“This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” Carter says. “He was taken prisoner by Hydra in the fall of 1943 where he underwent non-consensual medical experiments. He was then brainwashed into serving Hydra for some time. Sergeant Barnes came to us with the information that Hydra had plans to—”

“So you’re asking us to believe the word of someone you just said worked for Hydra for two years?” asks another man, this one an Army general with five whole stars. He’s wrinkled, his hair a gray crew cut.

Next to Bucky, Carter visibly bristles.

“If you had let me finish, General.” Carter inhales. “After Sergeant Barnes came to us with his warning, we began combing through our data anew. We had intelligence reports during the war as well as our own recent run-in with Hydra men using a local drug store—”

“You already sent us reports on the drug store, Ms. Carter,” OSS says. “We—”

“Director,” Carter says, pursing her red lips.

“I’m sorry?”

“Director Carter. That is my title that I have worked very hard for, and I prefer people use it, as I’m sure General David here prefers being called ‘general’ after all the years of service he put into becoming one, and as I am sure you prefer being called Agent Blackwell.” Carter gives him a tight-lipped smile. “And you may have reviewed that incident already, but given the new information and that Sergeant Barnes was originally sent here to clear a pathway for this attack, perhaps you should reconsider.”

“With all due respect, _Director_ Carter, one old man with some Nazi sympathies running a drug store may be cause for concern on a local level, but we don’t need to call in the whole calvary.” Blackwell sits back in his seat, shadows shifting on his face.

“Agent, are you being deliberately obtuse or is this a natural trait?” Carter asks.

“That’s enough, Ms. Carter,” General David says, and Bucky watches Carter’s knuckles go white around the edge of the table. Bucky starts to laugh, shaking his head.

“Sergeant Barnes, is something funny to you?” David asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, not even dignifying him with a “sir.” _Just thinking about all those times me and my buddies sat around in the muck and talked about what a big bunch of assholes the brass are, because damn, I gotta tell you I feel vindicated._ “You came into this with your minds made up already. War’s over, right? The parades have been had and the boys have been welcomed home. And now a lot of you have your eyes on politics, I’d imagine. Or you’re friends with somebody who does. Why would you wanna tarnish that perfect, happy little ending by acknowledging that maybe you called it all too soon?”

“Sergeant, you are treading on thin ice,” David says.

“Yeah? Gonna court martial the guy who just spent two years getting tortured by Hydra? The papers’ll eat that one up, I’m sure.” Bucky looks them all in the eye one by one. “You’re gambling with real lives on the hopes that we’re wrong. Remember that if we fail because you refused to help.”

Bucky has heard enough, seen enough, felt enough. He gets up.

“Ms. Carter, I suggest…”

Okay, maybe Bucky has time for one more thing. He turns on his heels.

“Pal, she already told you. It’s ‘Director Carter’ to you.” Bucky rips open the door and stalks into the hall. He’s honestly surprised they let him go alone, but behind him, he can hear raised voices. Blackwell exits next, Stark walking next to him and babbling so quickly that Bucky can’t believe they got through so much of the meeting without him saying a word.

“You don’t understand. The weapons they’ve got aren’t even theoretically possible. What they’re gonna do, Blackwell, the things they _can_ do. It shouldn’t—”

Bucky swears the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in warning just before it happens. Blackwell pivots on the balls of his feet, a knife loosing itself from his sleeve, his other arm pushing Stark against the wall and pressing into his throat until Stark’s words pitch high then stop altogether. When Blackwell speaks, his voice is barely a whisper, but Bucky’s ears are like a dog’s now, and he starts to move on the first consonant.

“Heil Hydra,” Blackwell whispers, moving the knife in a powerful arc—up high, then downward toward…

The second stretches out, flowing like molasses while Bucky pushes his body as hard as he physically can. He slams into Blackwell at top speed, wrapping his hand around his wrist and turning the knife inward toward his gut. Blackwell tries to start up on the code words, but he gets as far as “Sehn—” before Bucky shuts him up. Permanently. By the time it’s finished, Carter and Hansen are there, staring down at the scene in shock with their guns drawn.

“You heard him, right?” Bucky asks, looking at Stark who has his hand on his chest. “You heard him say it?”

“Howard?” Carter asks. Against the wall, Stark pulls his hand away from his breast to reveal a slice running through his suit and all the layers beneath, the hole opening like a mouth onto a shallow cut on his pectoral.

Carter looks between him and Bucky in confusion.

“Carter,” Stark starts and stops, shaking his head. “Carter, I do believe that Blackwell fella was Hydra.” Stark stares down at the tiny bit of blood on his hand, blinking.

Carter looks at Blackwell’s body, at Bucky still holding a knife, and then back at the door to the meeting room.

“Gentlemen, I do believe it’s time to go.”

* * *

Carter drives like a devil unleashed from hell, but not back to the SSR, just away from the place they left. They’re somewhere near Prospect Park when she pulls into a narrow alley and stops the car.

“I don’t believe any of that lot would think to come here.” Carter looks at Bucky and then seems to decide something. “‘Think; being the operative word.” She opens the glove box, and then reaches in, pressing a hidden button on the upper side. A second compartment folds down to reveal a small six shooter and a switchblade. She hands both of these to Bucky where he sits next to Stark in the backseat.

“Hey, I sure would like one of those,” Stark says.

“I’m sure you would, Howard.” Carter hands him the keys instead. “Stay in the car. Keep the engine running and be ready to drive like hell.”

“That I can do.”

Carter leads Bucky and Hansen through a backdoor into what seems to be an office of some kind. There is only one person there, a woman tapping away on a teletype machine near a plate glass window. She is large, her brown skin only a couple shades lighter than Gabe’s, though the undertones are different—more gold where his are pink.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“The morning dew has begun to dry, and still the sparrow weeps,” Carter says. “I need to use your phone.”

Carter calls the SSR and asks for Becca of all people, because Becca is an unexpected variable. If David or any of the others wanted to find her, they might expect her to contact Esparza or even Morita, but Becca? Carter probably didn’t even know her name last week.

“I need you to gather everyone,” Carter tells her. “Have them meet us at…” Carter goes quiet for several seconds, then sighs in frustration. 

Bucky holds his hand out, keeping his hand far enough away to make it a polite request rather than a demand. With another look like the one in the car, Carter relents and hands it to him.

“Mine and Steve’s place. It’ll be crowded, but at least we know who the neighbors are.”

“Done.”

“Don’t forget to take down…”

“I know.”

* * *

Bucky swears he can hear the floor groaning beneath the amount of people in the apartment. But he knows there are at least six folks living next door and that they all pile up in one bed together at night. And he knows the fact that he and Steve don’t share with anybody else is actually the exception and not the rule, so he figures the walls will hold for now.

He tests everyone he doesn’t know personally on the way in. A handshake, a whisper of “Heil Hydra” in their ear. It feels like he’s swallowed something toxic by the end of it, but everybody draws on him or backs away or goes to whisper frantically to Carter, and that’s as much assurance he’s gonna get.

“Barnes, I think this one’s all yours,” Carter says once everyone has arrived, and Bucky fits himself into a bit of open space near the radio and clears his throat.

“So we’ve got an address, and we know what we’ve gotta do.” Do they? Hell, what the fuck is he supposed to say here? Something inspiring? Bucky finds Morita, then Gabe, then Dugan. “Look, some of you fought in a war with me already. You know pretty words only take you so far when people are shooting at you, and that days that feel like dreams can still go nightmare before they’re done. I can’t promise you that we’ll win. I can’t promise that we’ll all get out of it even if we do. That might sound pretty bleak, but I’ve been through too much to try and sell water to folks who are moving to the beach.

“What I can promise is that, for those of you who didn’t know me three days ago, nearly all the best folks I know are in this room. Gabe Jones, Morita, and Dugan saved my ass more than once. Steve has never once stayed away from a fight, no matter how many goddamned times I asked him to. And my little sister, well, I reckon she’s a lot more like me than I’ll ever admit, and if anybody brings this up after this is done, I’ll deny I ever said that.

“My point is there are good people here—people who will have your back in the worst moments of your worst days. We all chose to enter this fight. Ain’t any draft cards anymore. Just a bunch of folks who love this city and this world, who have all decided to do what’s gotta be done.”

Bucky looks around the room at each of them—the familiar faces and the near-strangers.

“This might not be the kind of language some of you’d use on your own time, or the kind of thing you’ll wanna let your Ma hear you say. But it’s one of the first things that came out of my mouth when I remembered who I was, so I’ll give it to you as a battle cry if you want it.” Bucky inhales and finds Steve’s eyes, those precious blues burning strength into him like holy fire. “Fuck. Hydra.”

“Hear fuckin’ hear,” Dugan says.

“Two a.m.” Bucky glances at the clock on the wall near the ice box, the time now six in the evening. “Go home. Be with your families. Kiss your sweetheart, hug your little sister, eat your Ma’s cooking, leave a letter somewhere just in case. Whatever you need to do as long as you keep things close to your chest. Be back here at thirty past midnight so we can start coordinating.” He looks up at Carter at the end, and she gives him a slight nod. They’d agreed on all of this already, of course, but he wants to maintain the image that she is the real leader here. Because once this fight ends, if this fight ends, well, he and Steve have already had that conversation.

One by one, the apartment empties. Until only he and Steve and Becca remain. He doesn’t even have to say it. Instead, he shrugs on his jacket and heads for the door, secure in the knowledge that they’re both behind him.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t know how to do this. Then again, there isn’t exactly an instruction manual for it. His Ma and Pa and littlest sisters have gone two years without him. They had a funeral and mourned him. They looked at the empty hole in their lives and found ways to live around it.

It had been easier with Steve and Becca, when he hadn’t been able to even think about what he was doing, when he’d been so lost and confused that he followed his internal compass home. But he’s fully Bucky Barnes now, save a few new features and a few new wrenches in the gears. Behind him, Becca shifts from one foot to the other, but she doesn’t say anything while he stares at the door of the apartment.

In the hall, he can smell chicken and roasted carrots. He can hear Janie and Ruthie singing a song he’s never heard before. There is a shuffling of feet and he presses his fist to his mouth because he can see it in his head—everyone gathered around the radio, Ma and Pa dancing in the living room.

“Take as long as you need, Buck,” Steve says softly, stepping up to lay his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Heart beating fast, Bucky lets the song finish and raises a shaking fist to rap on the door.

He panics when he hears the footsteps coming. He should have let Steve or Becca prepare them for shocking news. He shouldn’t… He starts to turn and walk away when the door opens on his mother. And then gravity shifts and sways, and all he can do is fall in her arms. In that moment, he is five years old and finally, _finally_ waking from a very very bad dream. She pushes him away, but in the same motion grabs hold of his arms, gripping tightly.

“James?” she asks, her voice quivering, both of her hands coming up to hold the sides of his face. She traces the outline of his cheeks and down his arms—like he really is a child who just got home and she has to make sure there are no hurts that require her attention. “Jamie?”

“Ma,” Bucky chokes out, and Winnie Barnes lets out a sob that is somehow tortured and jubilant all at once before pulling him against her with such a force that they both stumble. “George!” she screams. 

His father slides into view, two girls who are not as little as he remembers hot on his heels.

“Oh God in heaven and all the angels…” His Ma shakes in his arms and then pulls away again like she needs to see his face to make sure, just to make sure.

“I don’t believe it,” George Barnes says, but even he can’t contain himself. He pulls Bucky into a hug that makes bones pop and crack. On either side, Bucky feels Janie and Ruthie latch on to his legs like they used to when they were smaller.

“Are you hungry?” Winnie asks. “Have you eaten? You’re so much thinner than you were. Where…”

Steve brushes Bucky’s arm when he slides past him into the apartment. Bucky catches his eye, and Steve nods.

“Why don’t I fix Bucky a plate?” Becca offers, heading for the kitchen.

“Ma, Pa,” Steve says, “can I talk to you both for a minute?” Steve jerks his head toward the living room while Bucky follows his oldest sister, walking like a penguin to accommodate the girls still wrapped around his calves.

“Aren’t you getting a little old for this, June Bug?” Bucky asks.

“Aren’t you getting a little old for that face?” Janie retorts, and it doesn’t make sense but what the hell does he care?

By the time Bucky and Becca finish making plates for the two of them and Steve, Steve seems to have finished the story. They all sit down at the dining table. Bucky notes that they never took his chair away. It has been there for over two years, sitting empty and cold.

“Will you be staying with Steve then?” Ma asks. “You’re more than welcome here, of course. Both of you. Your bedroom is still…” Her face screws up again for a moment, and she shakes it off and clears her throat. “Won’t you stay here tonight at least?”

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes across the table, and Steve gives a tiny shake of his head.

“There’s…” Bucky moves a carrot around his plate with his fork. “There’s one more thing I gotta do before it’s over. To make sure it’s over.”

“Surely someone else can do it,” Pa says. “Haven’t you done enough? Given enough?”

“More than enough,” Bucky says. “But there is nobody else, not for this one.”

The table falls silent. Ma takes it on herself to clear the plates. From somewhere in the kitchen, she manages to scrounge up molasses cookies, and Bucky nearly cries all over again at the taste. And then he thinks of Teddy and how he wept for his mother and wanted nothing more than to…

“I think it’s a good idea to tell you that Steve and I are a part of this too,” Becca says. At the head of the table, Ma takes a deep breath, her face going steely and resigned.

She reaches for her drink and taking a large sip of ice water. “I got a lot of letters from friends of yours. Some colorful stories. I think I would like to hear some from you though. Why don’t you tell me about some of the better days.”

From the plate on the table, Bucky takes another cookie, breaking it into pieces while he sorts through memories. “Let me tell you about Harry Angelo’s first run-in with the scorpions in the latrine. I’ll try to keep it dinner-table friendly.”

Across the table, his Ma and Pa smile at him warmly.

“So it’s our second day in Algiers,” Bucky starts. And that’s how it goes until midnight, with the briefest pause for Bucky to take Janie and Ruthie to bed and tuck them in, kissing both of them on their foreheads.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Ruthie asks, and he’s still trying to wrap his head around how much bigger she is than when he left. They both are. Janie’s too big to tuck in even, but there’s a “for old time’s sake” feeling to it—like they all know it doesn’t happen anymore, but this is a special occasion.

Just this once, since you’re back from the dead…

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, “but I’m gonna try my hardest.”

“I think you will,” Ruthie says. “You came back this time. I think you’re supposed to be alive for a long while so you and Steve can be happy and let us win games.”

Bucky chuckles softly. Part of him wants to prepare her for the possibility, but the other part wants to believe her with everything he’s got. In the end, he reaches over and smooths her hair back off her forehead so he can give her one more kiss.

* * *

At two a.m., the SHIELD team converges on a building near the docks. According to records Carter was somehow able to get her hands on despite staying under the radar, it was newly acquired by a Mr. Lehi Hardy.

Subtle.

They surround the building. Bucky keeps Becca and Steve in his eye line while they advance as a group. It is eerily empty inside, clean and sparkling like someone was just there, but there isn’t a soul in sight or a sound to be heard.

“I don’t like this, Sarge,” Gabe says, and then somewhere on the street a car squeals to a halt.

The guy from the communications team barges in with all the stealth of a bull in a china shop, calling for Morita. Of course. Of course they forgot about the one other person at SHIELD who _knew_.

“It’s a red herring,” he hisses. “The guy they left behind was a fake, and…”

They all step out the back door into a courtyard where two men stand—one tall, one short; one faceless, one not—surrounded by Hydra soldiers. Bucky immediately shoves Steve and Becca back inside.

“Go. Go and don’t look back."

In the middle of the courtyard, the short man in Coke bottle glasses opens his mouth. “It is so good to see you again, Sergeant Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Office of Strategic Services (OSS) was a real organization and was the predecessor of the CIA (among other things.) In some parts of the DCU, Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) works for the OSS. 
> 
> Bucky's reference to "six folks living next door and sharing a bed" is... a thing that happened in tenement living a lot. These were very small spaces that sometimes had up to 12 people living in them. They were often filthy, poorly ventilated, lacking in natural light (if they had any at all). Diseases tended to spread easily among tenement dwellers (for reason that are prob very obvious to all of us this year), and infant mortality rates were a lot higher. 
> 
> As you might have guessed from context and from others fics you've probably read, tenement dwellers were largely poor, a lot of them immigrants. Some tenements were better than others, depending on a lot of factors including when they were built. That Steve's had a stoop at all said a lot to me, when you see photos of actual tenements and a lot of them are no more than apartment-shaped wooden shacks. 
> 
> So in the grand scheme of things, if I'm going by the glimpse from the CA:TWS flashback, I think Bucky and Steve live in a relatively decent one that was likely built after at least a few health/safety regulations took effect. 
> 
> I have a lot of thoughts on this being the result of Bucky having some generational wealth, even if I view his parents in this fic as just... solidly middle class. And I have a lot of thoughts about them not wanting to take his parents' money but him still having... the mental/generational knowledge/emotional benefits of having grown up in an environment that was mostly financially stable (at least until the stock market crash). Which is why they still live in a tenement but live in an okay one. And why they live in a tenement but are able to do it as two people.


	17. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't leave you like that. (And also, for reasons that have nothing to do with the fic itself and everything to do with the aggressive update schedule and the constant looming of Tasks, I am just... ready to be done posting lol)

> _[To be delivered on July 5, 1936]_
> 
> _Dear Steven,_
> 
> _What makes a man a man? Some believe it is the choice to marry and have a family. Others believe it is the number of years you live, and by some of their measures, you would have some years to go yet._
> 
> _But I have been with you all these years others said you were not meant to live. I was delirious with fever when you were born, but I still remember how you cried and screamed, so loud and so full of life that when they told me you would not be long for this world, I laughed in their faces._
> 
> _I knew then, despite how small you were, despite the way you struggled in those early months, that you were determined to take hold of as much time as you could. And, oh, my angel, the first time I held you and you wrapped your hand around my thumb and squeezed with all your might!_
> 
> _You were always a fighter. Always. Even before you started causing trouble all over the neighborhood. Even before you met Bucky, forcing Winifred and I to form our own support group to stave off gray hairs._
> 
> _I think you and Bucky won that round._
> 
> _I think, together, you will win many more._
> 
> _If you received this letter, it means I was not there to wish you a happy birthday and congratulate you on the man you have grown to be. I wish I could have been, but if there is any comfort to me in this life, it is knowing that no matter what happens to me, you have another mother, another father, a man who loves you dearly, and three sisters to whom you mean the world._
> 
> _You will never be in want of love, Steve, and that is all a mother can hope for in the end._
> 
> _I am proud of you beyond measure, my golden angel, my fighter. I am proud of the man you have become and all the battles you have fought to become him. I am proud of your conduct in the battles yet to come, because I know your heart and it is so very good. With all that said, in those battles ahead, I ask that you remember one thing:_
> 
> _You do not always have to fight alone._
> 
> _All my love in this life and the next,_
> 
> _Sarah_

**November 1945**

They can’t run, couldn’t even if they wanted to. There are men in black uniforms pouring into the courtyard like a flood, and something about it feels like if they start firing guns then they’d better be ready to start taking return fire and, well, Steve may not be like Bucky or Becca with numbers, but even he can do that math.

So can everyone else apparently.

Soldiers catch Steve and Becca before they make it to the door, shoving them back into the yard with Bucky and the others. Steve’s fist clenches by his side, because there is the man with the red skull and there beside him must be the doctor, the doctor who…

“Oh, can it be?” Zola asks, turning his eyes directly on Steve and staring until Bucky steps in front of him and blocks him from view. “Can it be the Steve from your stories?”

Steve gets up on his tiptoes, looking at him over Bucky’s shoulder and yelling, “Go to hell!” At this, Zola only seems more delighted.

“He is exactly as you described. Better, perhaps.” Zola smiles. “Maybe he will be my next experiment. See, we are not cruel, Soldier. Wouldn’t you like to have him by your side?”

“What part of ‘go to hell’ do you not understand?” Bucky fires back.

“And yet you say he is the stubborn one.” Zola sighs. “Sehnsüchtig.”

Bucky shakes his head and looks down the line, then at the mass of black-clad soldiers.

“Verrostet.”

These must be the words, the ones Bucky said mix something up in his head and make him wanna do whatever Hydra says. Steve has to do something, anything, to make sure they don’t take Bucky again. Not like that.

_I’m gonna hold on with both hands as tight as I can…_

Steve inhales. “You wanna know what I think? Fuck Hydra!”

Heads snap to him from every direction, some friendly, some too covered in helmets to know if they’re friendly or not. (He’d wager not.)

“Siebzehn. Morgengrauen.”

Steve makes eye contact with Morita, with Gabe, with Florence. Becca. Dugan. Carter. Hansen. Esparza. Everyone else.

“You heard the man,” Dugan bellows with his whole chest. “Fuck. Hydra.”

It starts low, like a buzzing, and then it builds into a chorus. A call and response like they’re all at a baseball game taunting the Phillies.

“Fuck,” says one half.

“Hydra,” says the other.

And whatever Zola is saying no longer matters because there’s no way in hell that Bucky can hear it.

It’s a good plan until it isn’t.

The Red Skull raises his arm and makes a singular gesture with his hand, and Bucky barely has time to scream, “Inside!” before Hydra opens fire.

Steve reacts, but even before he does, someone has him by the back of his jacket. He catches a few things in his periphery that he doesn’t process until he’s inside—Bucky with a machine gun, firing wildly at anything in black; Carter taking pistol shots one after the other with machine-like precision; Morita, Jones, and Dugan falling together into some kind of formation, picking up Carter, Hansen, Esparza, and Bucky along the way.

Inside the building, they all pant heavily, but it’s not over because of course it’s not over. There were too many of them and that was a lucky tactical retreat, a temporary one at that.

“Cover the door,” Bucky says, taking a shot at a Hydra soldier and casting his eyes around wildly for ideas. Out of the dark, Esparza grabs Steve and Florence, upturning a table and yanking them behind it.

“Here is the situation,” Esparza yells over gunfire, popping up from behind the table to fire a shot. “Troops are stuck behind enemy lines, taking heavy fire. What do they need to do?”

Steve meets Florence’s eyes, both of them sharing a singular look of shock before they push it deep down inside, into that place where things have to be put until it’s safe to deal with them.

“No chance of reinforcements,” Steve says, stating a fact and hoping that talking about the problem gets his brain hurtling toward a solution.

“Not unless we’ve got a deux ex machina coming that we don’t know about.” Florence casts her eyes around and lands on a side door. Steve follows her gaze, already readying his body to move when he catches sight of something in the window of said door. In front of him, Florence tenses.

“What’s it called when you don’t have an idea but do have information about how things are actually worse?” Steve yells, and then he peers up over the top of the table just enough to find Bucky. “Buck!” Bucky takes a shot and whips around. Steve turns his head in time for the first figure to come through the door.

With a feral growl, Bucky fires. And fires. And fires.

Florence helps them all angle the table for better cover, taking a few shots of her own. “If we can clear it, maybe we can head upstairs.”

“Use the stairwell like a— Fuck!” A bullet whizzes by from yet another direction, and really, of course Hydra was going to loop around and come back in the front door. Esparza and Hansen both shift immediately to incorporate this new flow. Somewhere, the guy from the communications team is screaming. Steve finds him curled up in the fetal position behind a set of filing cabinets.

“Like a funnel,” Steve says, breathing heavily. He ducks low, closing his eyes and allowing himself one slow inhale, exhale.

“We need to close one of these off somehow. Divert the flow.” Florence shakes her head, one of her hands fisted in her skirt, the other gripping her gun.

Steve looks at the file cabinets again and then at Bucky. He waits for an opening, for just one little pause.

“Bucky!” he calls, and Bucky whips his head around again. Steve only has to do two things—he looks at the file cabinets and then at the door to the courtyard. Bucky nods.

They shuffle weapons like they practiced it. Bucky tosses his gun to Florence, and Steve takes her spare pistol. Together, they cover Bucky’s post, firing at the stairwell opening to keep it clear. Behind the file cabinets, Bucky takes hold of the messenger and drags him to safety behind Steve. Then, as though they weigh the same amount as a garbage can lid, he hefts one file cabinet in each hand and runs full speed at the backdoor.

Somewhere in the middle of his charge, a bullet catches Bucky in the thigh and multiple men call to each other in angry German, but Bucky doesn’t even slow down. He slams into the Hydra influx with a wall of metal, pushing them back, back, back. Quickly, and like they ran a drill just like it a hundred times, Morita steps up to slam the back door so Bucky can barricade it.

“Gun!” Bucky shouts, holding his hands open, and Florence arcs it through the air.

“Next move,” she says, reclaiming her pistol. “We have to—”

“Shit!”

Wooden tables are not meant to stop bullets, and they mostly got by so far on being the least interesting things in the room, but they aren’t anymore. Hydra soldiers have pivoted to fire at them directly. Esparza falls, swearing and gripping her side. At least six bullets narrowly miss Steve when they fly through the wood, which is at least six more bullets than he ever wants flying at him at all.

Bucky screams something in German, and the onslaught pauses for a second, leaving time for Steve, Florence, and Esparza to scramble behind a much thicker desk with Becca.

“Oh God,” Becca says, seeing the hole in Esparza’s side.

“It’s nothing, darling,” Esparza says woozily. “What’s a little gunfire between sworn enemies?”

Meanwhile Steve pulls off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.

“Can you do that and think at the same time?” Florence asks, when he starts to apply pressure to the wound. There are tears running down her cheeks. She swipes at them once and then aims at something that Steve can’t focus on right now.

“How bad is it?” Steve asks.

“Bad,” Florence says.

He nods, and chances a look up at Bucky. It is a decision he regrets immediately.

Bucky seems to have either run out of ammo or been interrupted before he could reload. There are five different Hydra men on him, and no one seems willing to take a shot to stop them.

Or maybe they’re out of ammo too. Morita, Dugan, and Gabe seem to have been scavenging before everything stopped. Steve shakes his head. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t how they planned it.

From the crowd of soldiers emerges the Red Skull. He takes Bucky under both arms from behind, pulling him against him in a tight grip, his horrid mouth moving next to Bucky’s ear.

Through the ringing in his own ears, Steve catches fragments of words, all said in a string, the Red Skull finishing by spitting the word, “Entführt.” In his arms, Bucky goes slack, and the room goes even more quiet. Everything is impossibly still.

No.

No no no no no no.

One of the soldiers asks a question.

“What did they say?” Steve asks Florence, and she shakes her head.

A response. And then the Red Skull mutters in Bucky’s ear and points right at Steve. Like a nightmare, Bucky stalks his way without a moment’s hesitation, knife twirling in his hand.

It seems like everyone on their team is holding their breath, and in that instant, Steve can feel the truth of it in his bones. Even the ones who just met him love Bucky already, and how could they not? Because who can possibly know Bucky Barnes and not love him?

From behind the desk, Steve sets his jaw and rises to his full height.

“Bucky this isn’t you,” Steve says, and Bucky is on him, close enough that Steve can smell him and feel his breath on his cheek. Bucky grips the knife handle tightly by his side. Steve meets his eyes. “The things they made you do, Buck. You’re the guy who reads to his sisters, who never leaves his Ma’s place without giving her a hug, who protects the people he loves with all he’s got, even if it means having to fight again when all he deserves is peace and quiet. Hydra’s perfect soldier—that isn’t who you are.”

Bucky stares at him, his jaw clenching, his eyes boring into Steve’s with the intensity of a sermon.

"I know."

And then Bucky turns and throws the knife.

End over end it goes, a blur of twirling black and silver that lodges itself into the Red Skull somewhere near his collarbone, tearing a yell from his chest. Teeth clenched, he grips the handle of the knife, blood glistening on his jacket and glove, his nightmare face twisting up into a scowl that he levels at Bucky.

He walks to the file cabinets and rips them away, pulling the door from its hinges so that it cannot be closed again. “Kill them all and make him watch,” Red Skull says, and then he raises his own gun and fires at Steve. Bucky moves like lightning to take the hit, the bullet ripping through his left arm.

Steve screams.

It feels like everything should stop all over again with Bucky injured. Don’t they want him back? Don't they want him alive?

But it is the opening shot of another volley, and the room lights up anew.

Together, Becca, Steve, and Florence drag Bucky over the desk. Whatever gun the Red Skull carries, it isn’t the usual pistol or even the usual rifle. It’s bad, Bucky’s arm. Really bad.

And the world beyond the desk is even worse.

Is this how it felt in Italy? Steve wonders. Is this how Bucky and all those men felt before…

And then the world starts to light up blue, and Steve knows it was.

From the floor, Bucky blinks up at him. Steve puts a hand on the side of his face, tracing his cheek and the hard line of his jaw. He’s still the most beautiful man Steve has ever laid eyes on, and if he’s gonna die anyhow, well… He leans down. There are worse ways to go than with the taste of Bucky Barnes on his lips. 

And if Florence and Esparza see it, then so be it. Who are they gonna tell? God? Steve reckons He already knows.

“I love you,” Steve says. Breathing through the fear, he lets his forehead press against Bucky’s and takes Bucky’s right hand in his. He figures as far as things go, this is ready as can get. "'Til the end of the line, right?"   
  
"Oh, sweetheart, don't I know it."

More blue. Flashes of light like they’re all in some giant photo booth.

And then…

“Ho-ly hell! That really does pack a punch!”

The words are so incongruous with the moment that Steve’s brain momentarily rejects them as part of reality. Everything has been so somber, so “this is the end, this is how we go,” that Howard Stark’s boisterous voice cutting through the room is like encountering a funeral being held at Coney Island.

Or a ride from Coney Island being operated at a funeral.

Blue, blue, blue.

Steve dares to pop his head up from behind the desk in time to watch a group of Hydra soldiers disappear into thin air.

“I cannot believe I am actually happy to see you at a time like this,” Carter says, as Stark disappears the last of the soldiers in black using some kind of rig strapped to his entire body.

“Yeah, well, I had a breakthrough using that book those fellas sent over and figured, 'What the hell? Not like I have any other plans tonight.'”

“The Red Skull and Zola,” Steve says, looking at the doorway that leads into the courtyard. Beneath him, Bucky stirs like he means to get up.

“Oh no you don’t.” Steve gently lays a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

“Steve, I gotta do this,” Bucky says, and he grunts and sits up, dragging himself out from behind the desk. He limps toward the door, arming himself along the way with knives picked from Hydra belts and a single Luger pistol.

“Stay back,” Bucky says. “They know what you mean to me.”

For once in his life, Steve relents.

Bucky stumbles out of the building. The courtyard is empty except for Zola and the Red Skull. They have given everything they had, and now only they remain. But Steve knows enough to know that they’re still dangerous even like this.

Men like them are always dangerous.

In the dirt, Bucky meets the Red Skull, knife held in his right hand. The Red Skull hauls back for a punch, but Bucky ducks, forcing his shoulder into Red Skull’s middle. They are well-matched in strength, dancing and feinting and twisting around each other like light and shadow. The only problem is that they are not well-matched in energy. Bucky has been fighting for what feels like hours now, and he has at least two bullet wounds.

He falters, the Red Skull landing a punch that sends him stumbling backwards. Another punch. Another. The pistol goes flying, sliding across the dirt and thudding against the building.

And okay, Steve at least _meant_ to stay out of the fight. That’s gotta count for something.

He lunges out of the back door, scrambling across the dirt and falling on the pistol even while Becca starts cursing at him from inside. And he’s not a great shot like Bucky or Carter, not even a decent shot like Florence.

But he doesn’t need to be either of those things. He just needs to be a breath in time, a break in the rhythm, a moment…

He fires, taking aim at Zola because, hey, why not give luck a chance?

The gun goes off with a loud crack, and the Red Skull’s head jerks toward the noise and toward Steve, a scowl already spreading across his face when he sees him. Steve takes advantage, waving at him and smirking. It’s all Bucky needs—that pause—and he takes the opening Steve gives him, plunging the knife right through the Red Skull’s rib cage and into his heart.

Like any other man, the Red Skull falls to his knees and tumbles into the dirt.

Next to him, Dr. Zola spares a few brief seconds for abject shock, and then he scrambles away like a field mouse, running for a door that leads out of the courtyard.

“Steve, you mind?” Dugan asks, and Steve happily hands him the gun.

“For Sarge." Dugan bares his teeth and pulls the trigger.

* * *

They find the machine upstairs. It’s a massive thing that spans the whole floor. Stark's already ordering tools for disassembly when the ambulance gets there.

* * *

They take Bucky’s arm. It’ll be an adjustment, they say, because he’ll have to relearn a lot of things. A long road, but Steve will more than take that. He’s just happy there’s a road at all.

Everyone visits. Everyone. There are so many flowers that Bucky jokes about them opening a shop after he gets out.

And he gets out fast, a lot faster than they estimated after the surgery. They shrug off the strangeness of it when the doctors and nurses comment.

“I know not to question miracles when I get ‘em, Doc.”

* * *

Steve and Bucky spend a week living at the Barnes's. Winnie feeds Bucky so much that Steve thinks he might be able to hibernate through the rest of winter by the time they go home. But it’s over. Bucky is alive and back where he belongs and it’s finally, _finally_ over.

And when Bucky curls up next to him that first night and presses his lips to the nape of Steve’s neck, Steve feels the entirety of the universe—every moment thrown askew by separation and war and death—click gloriously into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to think too much about the date on Sarah's letter - In the early 1900s, 21 was largely considered the age of majority (aka the age the law recognizes you as an adult capable of making your own legal and financial decisions, etc.). Some states had different ages for men and woman, where woman were considered adults at 18 and men were considered adults at 21. 
> 
> In ww1, the first two rounds of draft registration called on men over 21, before the age was lowered to 18 in the third round of registration in September of 1918. 
> 
> When a peacetime draft was instituted in 1940, the age was back to 21. But when the US joined the war proper, they again lowered the age to 18 (and expanded the range to 37 from 35). 
> 
> Essentially, to me, an amateur historian and not a real authority at all, it looks like 21 was still a pretty widespread belief, but that they were also willing to dip to 18 for some things (and in desperate times). Kind of like a lot of us hold fast to 18 but would dip to 16 for some things (hopefully for things like babysitting or watching an R-Rated movie and not things like going to war?)


	18. Eighteen

> _October 2, 1943_
> 
> _Bucky,_
> 
> _I was looking at your books today and thinking about that conversation we had once, about how each one of them has a different world inside. By my estimate, you’ve got at least thirty books in the apartment, and I know there are even more at Ma and Pa’s._
> 
> _That’s a lot of different worlds._
> 
> _I keep thinking about those worlds. At first, I imagined one where we were able to fight the war together. I would have your back and you’d have mine, like always. And we’d go places we’ve never been, see places we’ve never seen, write letters home to your folks and the girls between the fighting._
> 
> _But then after a while, that started to feel like the wrong sort of thing to imagine. After all, why imagine a devastating war when you can just as easily imagine a world that never needed one?_
> 
> _You told me once that you used to wish for big adventures, something like one of the characters in a Jules Verne novel._
> 
> _Well here’s my wish—you back home where you belong. In a world where we can live happily until our time is done._
> 
> _TTEOTL,_
> 
> _Steve  
>    
>    
>  _

**December 1945**

“Howard, it’s Saturday,” Bucky says. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You’ve got that banquet w—”

“I know, I know, I know, blah blah blah. But Barnes, you’ve really gotta see this.” Howard pulls him down the hallway deep below the place formerly known as Camp Lehigh. This is the first time Bucky has been inside. This is the first time he’s been back to Jersey since that afternoon before…

Stark apparently has the run of a massive lab within the facility. It’s clearly new. There are still half-packed boxes in some of the corners, and some of the furniture isn’t fully assembled. That’s not what catches Bucky’s attention though.

In the center of the room is a machine, and at the center of that machine is a glowing blue cube they pulled from the bomb that would have destroyed New York.

“I’ve been studying that book. There were all these references to space. Space this. Space that. So many Norse runes, and here I never paid attention in Norse Runes 101 in college. Hindsight really is a kick in the pants.” Howard is doing that thing where he talks a mile a minute, and Bucky is doing that thing where he wants to throttle him just a little.

“Anyway basically it’s your typical ancient book about a magical cube. So I kept looking at it, went to the actual library for some books on those old runes—I know, right!—and oh, Barnes, what a fool I’d been. I was looking at space like, you know…” Stark points up. “Which is only kind of right. This thing is referring to space like…” Stark gestures at the entire room around them. “Like time and space. The concept of space itself. And that’s—” Stark punctuates this with a strong wag of his finger “—when I figured it out.”

Stark pulls the watch off his wrist and puts it on a table before aiming what amounts to a blue-beam pistol at it, the pull of a trigger blinking the watch out of existence. Moving to the machine with a bouncy, light-footed step reminiscent of Gene Kelly, Stark grins at Bucky and dramatically flips a switch. Blue light fires through tubes in the machine and into a small glass box, inside of which reappears the watch.

“Holy hell,” Bucky says.

“You see, Barnes! It doesn’t disappear anything!” Stark gestures at the box. “It just sends it somewhere else.”

“Do you think…”

“Oh, pal, I think all the time,” Stark says. “But I’ve gotta modify the receptacle into something bigger, and then, well, maybe…”

* * *

Stark turns on the machine. The first re-emergence is a Hydra soldier.

“And we’ll just put that right back where we found it,” Stark says, aiming his pistol. He looks at Bucky, shrugging and grimacing all at once. “He’s still alive, so it can’t be _that_ bad.”

It takes days, but eventually familiar uniforms start to emerge.

And then there’s Harry Angelo, walking out of a large glass box back into the world.

And Bucky wishes it could be all of them somehow—that Stark’s machine could pull Janosi and Lipnicki and Kaplan and even Peterson back from where they’ve gone, but Christ, he’ll take not being the only fella who gets to come back from the dead. He’ll take a whole slew of soldiers he didn’t even know getting to go home like early Christmas miracles.

Angelo stares at him, looking around the lab with wide eyes before settling his gaze on the space where Bucky’s arm used to be.

“Well as usual, I see I missed something important,” Angelo says, and Bucky grabs him and pulls him into a hug because what else can he do?

* * *

The Army fast-tracks back pay and a whole lot of what can only be described as hush money. He gets Hansen to cut a check to Janosi’s family and make it look like additional benefits showing up out of the blue “for services rendered to the SSR during the war.”

It isn’t enough, but both Schmidt and Zola are dead, and he hopes that wherever Janosi is, those three things are enough of an apology. He whispers this to Steve one night in their bed.

“I can’t speak for somebody else, Buck, but everything you ever told me about Janosi? I doubt he’d figure that there’s anything to forgive.”

Bucky falls asleep with tears in his eyes and Steve’s fingers in his hair.

* * *

He and Steve buy flowers. White lilies—her favorite.

Bucky puts the bird brooch beside them on Sarah’s grave.

“They gave me a picture of a blonde woman. Kept telling me she was my real mother.” Bucky leans into Steve’s side. “So when I remembered someone blonde, I thought…”

Steve twines their fingers together inside Bucky’s coat pocket. “And you were right.”

“Happy birthday, Ma Sarah.” Bucky’s breath fogs in the air.

* * *

It starts with Becca saying she plans to bring someone home.

“It’s, well, it ain’t exactly a fella,” she says. “I know how you all feel about Steve, but I still wanted to…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ma says. “I’ll add another chair.”

“Rebecca, dearest, you know all we want for any of you is happiness.” Pa taps her on the arm, and that’s that.

It expands when Falsworth and Dernier show up out of the blue.

“Don’t y’all both have family you could be with?” Dugan teases (which of course leads to its own teasing about picking up ‘y’all’ from hanging around Texans too long in the war.)

“Well, I suppose if you want us to leave,” Dernier says, and he and Falsworth both make a show of standing up from the table at the diner, Falsworth going so far as to slap his legs and sigh deeply before getting to his feet. Jones and Morita both grab one each by the back of their jackets, yanking them back into their seats.

Falsworth and Dernier mean Dugan, Jones, and Morita by default.

Then Carter reveals over coffee with Bucky and Steve that her brother died in the war and he was about all she had, so of course she gets an invite. (And then Jones asks if he can bring her, so she gets an invite twice-over.)

Jones means Florence.

Florence means that they need to invite Esparza, who answers Steve’s invite over the phone with, “Yes, yes, already planned on it.”

“You realize we’ve gotta invite Stark now,” Steve says in the middle of Sunday dinner, a little over a week before Christmas.

“Stark? Howard Stark?” Pa asks, voice barely carrying over Bucky’s groan.

“Fine, but I’m making him bring extra tables.”

“And if Stark’s coming, well, Hansen…”

“I’m just gonna make up flyers and drop them around SHIELD headquarters. How’s that?” Bucky shakes his head and meets Steve’s eyes across the table. For all that he sounds put-upon, they’re both smiling at each other warmly.

So on Christmas Eve, Esparza shows up first and gives Becca a tender kiss on the cheek that clears up a few things; Stark shows up with extra tables and two gorgeous holiday hams; and Dernier, Falsworth, Dugan, Morita, the Joneses, and Peggy all show up together with fruit cakes and side dishes and an absolutely stunning cake shaped like a snow-dusted log, Dernier holding it as delicately as one would a newborn.

Hansen declines the invite to be with his family, as does Harry Angelo for reasons that Bucky very much understands. But they do send cards that hang over the fireplace next to hand-knitted stockings.

There is so much laughter and love. Peggy and Gabe hold hands off and on through dinner. Florence and Morita flirt openly. Becca and Esparza (“please call me Vera”) exchange soft glances over servings of ham and Ma’s turkey.

And Bucky and Steve, well, they sit wedged between Janie and Ruthie, Steve on Bucky’s right, both of their bodies angled together and touching casually at the edges.

“Yeah, so I said, ‘General, that’s not a cat,’” Stark finishes up somewhere down the table, and Ma and Pa laugh so hard that wine nearly comes out of Pa’s nose and Ma has to swipe away tears.

“Well,” Dugan’s voice carries through the whole room like a tuba, “it’s like Sarge always said. ‘Fuck Hydra.’”

The table goes quiet for just a second, and Dugan looks up at Ma. His cheeks, already ruddy from the wine, go even pinker.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says, and Ma stares at him for just a moment before shaking her head.

“No, dearest, I agree,” Ma says. “Fuck Hydra.” And then she raises her glass.

“Hell, I’ll drink to that.” Gabe downs a sip along with most of the table, and then the conversation resumes, bouncing around topics that range from “that flying car of yours” to “that perfect little bathhouse in Italy.”

“This feels right, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks, watching everyone together and feeling so much warmth inside that he could burst. His words are soft enough that only Steve can hear, and Steve reaches over and takes his hand between bites of green beans and cornbread dressing. 

“Yeah, Buck,” he says, turning his head to look at him with the most precious blue eyes on Earth, “it really, really does.”

* * *

Bucky wakes up naked, chilly, and happy in a perfect sort of way. The tenement is cold, made colder still by the snow whipping against the windows. But he runs hotter than he used to, and he has the warmth of Steve’s body against his. He snuggles closer, waking Steve in the process. Bucky can’t find it in himself to feel bad about it when Steve cards his long fingers through his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” Steve says, his voice gentle and hoarse from sleep. Bucky angles his head to drink in the sharp lines of Steve’s face, the fan of his eyelashes, the halo of his blond hair.

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.” He presses a kiss to Steve’s sternum.

Later, there will be presents. Later, they will huddle beneath a blanket on the sofa with the radio on, holding each other gently until the need to make love overcomes them both.

But for now, Bucky nuzzles against Steve’s belly like a cat and goes back to sleep. There is no schedule to keep, no draft call to answer, no ship to be on—their lives from now on, for better or for worse, are their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took this journey with me. Those of you who were there to comment on every chapter are especially dear to me, but if you've been there lurking in the shadows and find commenting difficult (especially given the current state of reality), know that I appreciate you too. And if you just got here because you were waiting for it to be complete or just found it, you're golden too. 
> 
> I would like to once more thank [Not_Worms](https://twitter.com/not_worms) for claiming this fic in the bang, for being patient with me when this year made it harder to write, and for creating some beautiful artwork that helped bring this story to life. I still remember how excited I was when you shared your character concept of Becca with me and how when I was having trouble motivating myself to write, I had a look at her. And then you gave even more beautiful work--Florence Jones, the porch scene. Bless you forever. 
> 
> I would like to again thank my beta Spacebuck for stepping in at the last minute when my original beta found that she didn't have it in her during this hell year. I would like to thank Loeily and Hatice for the translation help. Bookbee/Epicstuckyficrecs for satisfying my curiosity about the French occult leader. Gyro and Spacebuck for a second time for those word sprints and for helping me figure out what I wanted to do with the letters. 
> 
> Once again, I would like to shout out mandarou's [absolutely incredible Steve/Bucky timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878852). It is a gift to this fandom, and I couldn't have created this fic without it. If you're a stucky writer, it is an invaluable resource to bookmark. 
> 
> I also want to include a couple of resources that helped me with more realistic/accurate addresses and neighborhood names, etc. (a detail that probably wasn't necessary as;dlkfj). [Resource 1](http://www.1940snewyork.com/#) and [Resource 2](https://1940s.nyc/). The second one is worth a click even if you aren't researching for anything in particular. It's an almost streetview style look at 1940s New York using old Tax Department photos, and it is pretty cool. 
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who read this all the way through, whether you read it as it was posted, found it in the Bang collection, or are finding it several years from now in 2025. Whether you leave detailed comments, incoherent comments, or no comments at all. You are all appreciated, and I hope that, like Bucky, all of our futures are brighter than our pasts.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this?
> 
> If you liked the Take Down Hydra + Teamwork vibe of this fic, you might like my Cyberpunk Stucky fic, [EMPIRES FALL, BUT NOT US](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19164064). _A cyberpunk tale of friendship, love, loss, and reunion; framed by the battle to bring hope and joy back to a City drowning under Hydra's rule._ It features a mix of Team Cap and the Howlies, also with a happy ending. 
> 
> Share fic on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1336074566800650241?s=20)
> 
> Share art on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/not_worms/status/1328477261817810945?s=20)
> 
> Share fic on [Tumblr](https://aidaronan.tumblr.com/post/636880374128082944/image-id-a-black-and-white-pencil-style-drawing)


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